Hope
Hope, in any language that I think it,
has not fed me for three days now,
has not made waiting on this corner for work any easier,
any less painful.
What is in your eyes is my dignity.
I give it to you, asking for work, waiting.
What is in my heart
is mine,
is home,
and what it pumps belongs to me.
The
leftovers go into my work.
It is all I have.
Work.
Another truck pulls up,
"You, you and you."
I can work bricks and motar!
I can work wood!
I can work...
Hope, in any language that I think it,
in the back of this stranger's truck,
with bricks or motar or wood,
it doesn't matter ,
I can work.