Taste The Wonder....

she stands down in front of the mission,
smoking borrowed cigarettes,
grey thin soul you can see through.
chapters written in faded jeans,
and shoes too worn for footprints.
a mother, a daughter, a sister, a lover,
somebody's somebody, nobody's home.
bloomed out of season to a different beat,
in a garden of stone in the alley.

they say beauty walks these homeless streets,
perfumed by soup kitchen longing.
while babies bear babies and numbers are given,
she writes her name on dust covered windows.
as you and i pass with hurried thought,
never feeling what she already knows.
and graves take bodies as if by chance,
as rats gather to sing her praises.
how dare we speak or even dream?
for only she can taste the wonder!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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