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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530446" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sunday morning</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Through a <br>filth-laden<br>plate glass<br>window, <br>I saw<br>her standing.<br>Wearing her<br>Sunday best.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her thick black <br>hands hung down <br>in front of her<br>meaty thighs, <br>each grasping <br>on to her purse strap.<br>Patiently waiting<br>for the bus.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shining off<br>of her <br>ample face, <br>a sun which<br>suggested <br>faith's glowing<br>promise<br>in the afterlife.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A beautiful, <br>too perfect, <br>blue-skied<br>Sunday morning, <br>contrasted the<br>depressed ghetto<br>surroundings<br>and the stench <br>of the<br>laundromat<br>I was cleaning.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Suddenly, <br>a knife <br>plunged<br>in to the side <br>of her head, <br>just below her bonnet.<br>Her thick right hand<br>covered the wound, <br>as her left refused<br>to surrender her purse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>She screamed <br>and cursed at<br>her assailant <br>as he ran off, <br>empty handed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wailing uncontrollably, <br>her hysterics equaled<br>the brutal attack<br>she had endured</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Blood continued<br>to run <br>down her face, <br>between her<br>fingers and<br>onto her dress.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her purse was saved.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her life spared from<br>the vicious attack.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To the assailant, <br>the contents of<br>her purse meant<br>more than her life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ambulance<br>came soon-after.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She lived.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wasn't<br>the only<br>witness <br>that morning.<br>God was<br>watching too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She lived.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And her after-life <br>didn't occur <br>on that <br>fate-filled<br>Sunday morning.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I finished my<br>bologna sandwich, <br>sipped my Pepsi...<br>and went back to<br>sweeping the floors.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>by<br>Tim Labbe`</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Tim+Labbe">Tim Labbe</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530446" data-title="Sunday morning de Tim Labbe" data-description="Through a 
filth-laden
plate glass
window, 
I saw
her standing.
Wearing her
Sunday best.

Her thick black 
hands hung down 
in front of her
meaty thighs, 
each grasping 
on to her purse strap.
Patiently waiting
for the bus.

Shining off
of her 
am..."></div>
</div>
</div>