There’s an element
of searching
a strong unwritten
text
reminders of miracles
wasted in an alley
or a hallway
without lights
where vapors
dribble out confessions
like the street artist
with a crooked crescent
smile
chalking his drawings
providing them
with a soul
and eyes that follow
and a woman
silent like daffodils
staring stiffly
into her uplifted palms
hoping for a message
on how not to be
found
Roger Singer 