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| The Uplifters One of the saddest things about a woman in a sweater poorly knit - with racked-nerves she looks to find a home an empty bench. Anywhere to lay her tired head. Bologna and crackers her only dinner devoid of eloquence, desperate and freezing in want for romance the northwind doled its bitter bite without sympathy, without empathy, without respite - hours melted into longer hours, weary and assuming. The nightfall of philanthropy was over,no dimes were tossed inside her waiting cup - passerbys pay little attention to a bum on the street, her head down into the shell of her worn-lonely collar. Trying to deposit the steam of life, she stamps her frozen feet. They've proclaimed her heretic; a raving lunatic, the fleeting audience walking by. She felt her muse evicting mutterings, and with delusion on tongue, her genius was myth... . her poems wobbling in the cold, her prose looking for warmth looking for relief an invitation lingered on her mind. But in the double darkness, the black-velvet drape its course without any rescue - she could only write in vain. she leaves ink-stains wrapped around her heart, around her poems, she attempts to keep them warm for another day to keep them for just one more 'morrow asking for a quarter for her crumpled page. | |
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