Between the doors
The sidewalks have stories to tell.
Stories of triumph and sweat
and being late for work,
stories of hunger under a cardboard roof
that leaks when it rains.
Each day the stories rush past one another
blind or blinded,
each one reaching for the safety of a door
where they become a solid what
instead of an ethereal who,
fear traded for the relief of a shadowy peace.
We close our eyes and turn our heads away from
all these little wars,
each one feeling like one war too many–
a noise too loud to bear,
a song too sad to sing,
a pain too heavy to lift,
a grief too deep to carry–
and we struggle to paint
a blue sky over these our little islands
with a short-handled paint brush.
And somewhere near the bus stop
there is a sign that few read
and fewer still heed
reminding us that
Hope is more than a cease-fire.