Past my reserves, past intact,
Indulgences of doubt
Seeping through cracks
And I put down my hand
I stepped back.
I sit on a bit of stoop,
The city street half-lit
By twilight clouds, passing cars-
Numb to cold, to life, sitting
Unable to eat, I lift a whispered prayer,
“Please… I feel so close to quitting.”
So simple, maybe just a falling tear or two,
Ensuing silence… then sounds of life pursue-
Sirens in the distance, some nearby conversations,
Footfalls and phonecalls out of view
But in earshot- the children call to me by name,
As does the neighbor passing through.
Gentle love fills my soul.
This house becomes my home:
A place my soul finds rest,
I love it best when I’m alone,
No one judges how I fail;
None resent its frail bones.
And prayers are heard,
from my little stoop.