The Sandwich Makers
Their small soft hands briskly handle bread, meat, and cheese as they listen They listen to some of us they came to feed- we three, coming to represent the dispossessed; those from the grates and alleys who, at night, return to dark deserted streets, who know the street is a desert; sustenance comes from kind strangers like the sandwich makers These sandwich makers interrupt their busy lives of labor and aspiration to listen to us three, perhaps to learn of broken folk, of exotic creatures who exist at the edge of their familiar world, who in the end, are surprisingly human- the cool philosopher, the elegant dreamer, the tattered freak all, nearly human enough to touch One sandwich maker, all slim limbs and big dark eyes, grasps my hand as she would never do on the street and speaks to me, discovering we speak the same language The language of those eyes seems to ask what broke me; from me, there is no answer, only helpless silence; from her, silent assurance that she is here to see and listen to the cool philosopher, the elegant dreamer, and the tattered freak, exotic creatures, all human enough to touch. Written March 27th, 2002 © on Mar 27 2002 05:41 AM PST 10 • 0
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"Their small soft hands..."