The tossed salad
at our Soup Kitchen starts
with lettuce from the Community
Garden, planted by a Roma family waiting
to hear their refugee status, tended by 70 year old
David, who grew up on a kibbutz, harvested by the Sixth
Grade class from down the street, washed by Mrs. Singh,
recovering from a brain injury, dressed by Kaliyah,
a Med student who comes when she’s got a free
hour, shared by a family of the working poor
who swallowed their pride to come here
for the first time. They offer thanks
and ask about the garden.
And so it grows.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
I wanted to feel stillness so I went for a walk, watched the cobblestones pass…
Sometimes it just stuns you like an arrow flung from some angel’s wing. Sometimes it…
Once I would say “table,” and mean “table.” Once, I would say “broccoli” and mean…
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