The Poor


I can read of you
and I feel something.
I cry when I see you
thin and hungry.

I judge you when you hold a sign,
when you smell, or look ugly.
I drive by you walking in the rain.
I see you sleeping on the street again.

When I touch you,
I want to weep.
When you are locked away
and your babies we keep.

I visit your home
where you sell yourself away.
I give you groceries
and your child a book.

I don't know your life
or the abuse you took.
But I can't look away anymore.
I can't leave even with a wide open door.

So what am I to do?
You are now really a "You".

I see your face when I pray,
when I look at my children.
I see your face again, again and again.

I read of you and I feel something.
I look at you and I see you.
I look at you and I see Jesus.   

Carole Turner
1/2007


This is one of my contribution to Winter Poetry Carnival on http://burnsidewriters.com

Comments

Anonymous said…
Carole, Today is Friday, Nov. 30th.
Love MOM