Perspective
To the travelers
The moon hangs low in the chilly air,
It’s faint silver shimmer
Falling on frozen ground
Beneath the vast starry sky.
A man sleeps in the open doorway
Of a rusty boxcar,
Allowing the refreshing winter
To blow across his grateful face.
He watches the landscape as it flies past,
And he marvels at the myriad colors
Of the world, the unsung painter
Creating art for blind audiences.
The man pulls out two treasures
From the pack where his head rests.
One is a sandwich,
Half frozen and of simple make.
The other is a small, clay pipe
Filled with the acrid, familiar smells
Of a home left far behind.
Some way down the track
The train’s whistle
Blasts its echoing refrain.
The man stretches out his legs
And hangs them from the moving car.
He smiles and sighs in
Appreciation of the warm pipe
And his simple sandwich,
And pities the millions of people
With roofs over their heads,
With fires to keep them warm,
Who will never know the wonders
Of this silent, winter night.
(2015)
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