waterdrops

sometimes
the early morning silence
whispers a line
perhaps from a song
long forgotten
or an unwritten poem
and dances
with the footprints
of the rain that lost its way
tap
tap
tap
the leaf
sends a message
to the ground.
tap
tap
tap
and the leaf
waits for an answer.

stoplight

for him, red means go.

he rolls his wheelchair around 
to trade flowers for food 
among impatient cars 
waiting for their turn to rule the streets.

i stare at him from inside the comfortable car 
wondering why i have legs and he has none 
and how alienated he is in my world and how alienated i am in his.
he wipes beads of sweat on his forehead 
while i sink my back on the seat and close my eyes 
and redirect the AC grills to my neck. 

i long for sleep and perhaps he does too.

we complain of the same sun.
i look at him and he looks at me. 
he’s not pressed for a deadline today 
and i’m not chained on my seat. 

outside 
the billboard promises me 
of whiter teeth and fresher breath.

green means go for me.

glass walls

I’d rather have concrete than glass walls
so that i see only what is inside my room
but with glass walls
i see things beyond me
i stare at them
and stare again
and begin
to find beauty
but the saddest part
is when i reach for them.
should i wait for God to grant men
the ability to transcend walls?
or should i start covering my glass walls?
(sigh)