Sister in Seattle
wrapped around in rags of faded hues.
Eyes fixed upon the Latte held in hands to warm
the fingers that thrust through the worn out gloves of blue.
The Latte? Given by a stranger on this freezing Sunday eve.
(An angel or a caring soul? Or – maybe it was you?)
‘Could become 10 degrees below tonight’
booms a passing Dodge car’s radio.
her precious luggage filled with ‘objects d’art’
gathered from her ambles (or her morning jog?)
past the downtown homes that are her Nordstrom stores.
Upon curly steel-gray hair, she wears a cap
(Discarded by a disappointed fan perhaps.)
“Seattle Mariners” it reads “Nineteen Ninety-five”.
Regally upon her head, it sits with jaunty pride.
A Queen, decked in her coronation crown!
with little finger crooked, she delicately plucks
from within, a ‘to die for” cinnamon roll,
which she’d found behind the fast food chain
around the corner from her place of rest.
It had beckoned from a bursting garbage can:
these favored gourmet stores for those who live
and sleep and sometimes die upon our streets,
(paved with the gold of Visa, MasterCard,
Discover and American Express!)
Yes – ‘tis Our Lord’s years, two thousand two, three and four….