I see you bent over
a garbage can in a
damp alley, thin fingers
moving, swiftly selecting,
eyes fixed on your task.
Finished, you scurry
away with your plunder,
body bent over it
protectively. The winds
of space howl through
your head. There is no
refuge. I have a place
but often I feel I'm
out there with you,
standing on some
desolate corner, eyes
fixed on the cosmic
distance, victim to the
weather of flesh and
soul. Some nights I
cower in my bed, telling
myself over and over,
"You have a place. You
have a place. People
know you," but am not
convinced.

No one ever tells you that
you find yourself in increments,
one small piece at a time,
holding tightly to what you have
while reaching for the next small scrap.
No one ever tells you that
the task is never completed,
that there are always, always
pieces missing, that the
mask of togetherness is a sham.
The priest sits listening in
the confessional while he
dreams of small boys' behinds
and the psychiatrist, that
source of all wisdom, listens,
nods, takes notes, while
wondering if his wife will
be there when he gets home.
And through all this, the earth
continues to turn and the
only thing we know for certain
about God is that if He made us
in His image, then He's lost too.

Shannon Williams [] Broker, ABR, GRI You Hyde Park Realtor and Neighbor ShannonWilliams@TriBellaRealty.com 210 West 38th St. Suite A [] Austin TX 78705 [] 512.300.2355