LISTENING TO LA BOHEME

The streets are gray like the grayness 
of the good hearts of heartbroken people. 
This music makes him hold out his 
hands to them. They hear the music of 
sadness, these mighty hearts made sad 
by a sun that never seems to rise. He 
sits inside himself with the friendship 
of the music. He wishes he had some 
friendless people beside him, bringing 
the golden light they’ve forgotten they have. 

AT 4:51 PM

The sun was just starting to set

when he suddenly understood.

It was so clear.

He understood these simple truths –

that every sign along the roads

was placed there by a person

who had worked with focus

to finish the task –

that every part in every passing car

was installed by a person

with a hard-working heart

and hands that sometimes held other hands –

that every shirt on every driver’s back

was made by workers in a factory

who often found satisfaction

in producing a simple but splendid shirt –

that every clock in every house

holds millions of special moments –

that the setting sun is glorious

whether anyone notices it or not.   

NEWNESS

He felt it in his fingers.

It followed him at home and school,

and slept all around his house

when he slept. There was newness

in the fields of words he found

when he opened a book in the morning,  

and in the face of every student

in his classes. All his thoughts

were new, even if he didn’t know it,

and there was nothing but new light

in every unfolding moment,

although he sometimes didn’t see it,

didn’t see the flash of lightning

in the center of every occurrence.