I am the ends

of untied shoelaces

slapping against cement

with every step.

 

I am the umade bed

of the tired old man,

who plays checkers

with an imaginary friend

late at night.

 

I am the water

the drips out of the faucet

after you thought

you turned it off.

 

I am the unremitting weariness.

 

I am the seagull,

demented with age,

can’t find his flock,

and meanders the beach sky,

lonely as his voice’s cry.

 

There is great passion in suffering,

and the seagull is guided by the unseen hand

of the wind,

and the old man finds a friend to

place chess with.

 

And the great touch of God,

bends down slowly,

with all the care of a tropical whisper,

and ties the shoelaces

that have kept me falling for so long.