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there are the foolish;

trudging through the gravel roads of
the world, – that is our hourglass, we
the grains of sand – and are
indifferent and apathetic to the occasional
silver grains among us.
the beautiful people, the
exclusive person, the seldom guy
with the heart not scarred
by with the sequined purse
who got robbed on her way to her Victorian.
the foolish overlook the ones who’ve
taken a pleasure to doing what is right,
who shout out to the blue-green ball on
which we stand – turning, spinning –
“Hey! Thanks for everything.”
the foolish forget that this ball,
it was here first.
they do nothing, give nothing, say
nothing – but take everything.
kicking the chalky pebbles of that gravel
road on their way by.

there are the okay ones;

slouched most unattractively on that cloud
of a leather sofa, eyes glazed over from
reruns of Friends on Friday night
running races through one ear and
whistling absentmindedly as they
find their way out the other.
then. suddenly, so suddenly,
Africa makes its way to their television
screens, permanently watery-eyed children
who had no chance to be children. no chance
to dunk that first dunk or dress for that prom.
the kids on the screen catch the watchers’ –
the okay ones’ – attention. they watch as a
soft and soothing voice, the kind that could sell
perfume at Sears in a flash, asks them to
sponsor a child. their eyes flirt with the concept
of tears for an instant. they think.
“When money loosens up, maybe I’ll…”
the thought cuts itself off, never to be
completed. David Schwimmer
just released a juicy pun.






then there are the amazing;

unobserved, cold-shouldered by the foolish.
glanced at, peeked at by the okay ones.
the decent, the wise. imperfect.
but decent. And wise.
the ones who take off that favourite
sweater while walking down the rush hour streets –
lay it down on that man leaning on that
cardboard box in that alley way near the best
Chinese cuisine in town. that man with the
empty grin and unfocused eyes.
the amazing. the ones who saved that
lawn mowing, babysitting cash for
that leather jacket with the authentic
fur hem. but on their way to that
store downtown, the one with the
only jacket left, turned into the church.
handed over that cash for Christmas charity.
the kind of people who bought
two French mocha with the dark chocolate
shavings. and shared them with the man leaning on
the museum steps with
nowhere to sleep in mid-January.
the amazing. the ones who fast for a week
to truly grasp the idea of poverty and hunger.
the idea of an empty fridge and an
even emptier stomach.
the amazing.
the ones who lie in bed at night thinking
about their day – giving, giving, giving,
and never taking or receiving. thinking about
all how they made simple brown grains of sand,
some even rotting into a black, soot-colour,
feel like transparent silver. all black light
shining through with no effect. no impact.
they think. about all the good they did.

and since they are amazing,
they think;
“I can do better.”

amen.




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