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What are we selling, or underselling
poverty or apples, is that the question?
A life whose fruition is not so tender,
a trade disguised as hunger,
a dignity bent low
beneath the dripping rim of a cart
out of rhythm, out of flow.
We sell sweetness,
but undersell the storm endured,
the countless mornings of lifting,
pushing, calling out to strangers
who seldom meet our eyes
still the ears hear the cries.
And yet the drizzle comes to
dampen his fire,
to deaden his hope,
to dull his spirit, to extinguish
the small flame of comfort.
It tries to hush the means of need,
to lull the struggle into silence,
to overawe his resolve with thunder.
But he remains, in quiet defiance,
letting the wind attempt to quieten him,
to shush his voice,
to soft pedal his courage,
to still his movement,
to tongue-tie his hunger.
Though each raindrop falls like a thought,
in the silence between traffic horns—
a pin drop moment of endurance
that no gale can erase.
What is the price of resilience?
What is the weight of a dream
measured against the weight of rain?
Society takes the fruit,
but leaves the man in shadows,
huddled in silence
where no coin's noise can reach.
Life is difficult—
but more challenging still
is the quiet bargain struck
each day:
to stand in the flood,
not utter a word to
the western world,
still believe
in tomorrow’s buyer,
to drive through hunger
without brake, without gear.
