There she is again
with mug chipped half-white,
her loose tank ribbed with stains.

The blotches reflect
her coffee-colored cheek
mangled with yesterday’s bruises.
Her legs give way helplessly over the gutter
as she stares through the cigarette smoke
into the asphalt.

I try to act natural as I stride briskly
up the sidewalk. “Good morning,” I say
with a worried smile.

She’s heard all my words before.
She gives a brief nod of recognition,
her stare empty and shamed.

I push my arms down hard. It’s all I can do
to not grab her and force her away from it all,

but then I would be like him.

And so I just stand and speak lightly
while she sips. Her reaction shows
that even the whiskey is losing its bite
and what will she have left?

It seems our feet have been on different walks of life,
but only because she wears her wounds beyond the skin.
If only she knew how much I held her
loneliness.

In a moment, we both spot a mama bird
in a nearby tree
bringing food to her nest of little ones
who squeak relentlessly, desperate to live.
We watch as she gives away
all her morning’s work.

We feel their survival and her
without.

We watch her overlooking her nest,
famished yet in triumph,
and we suddenly yearn for that
kind of hunger,

a chance to have nothing
and everything all at once.