The tender-hearted, stepping over derelicts
to reach the library, balance the smallest
budgets neatly, fearing random audits, high
rents, defaults. And, as the bus driver leaps
to his feet to call “What was that? I didn’t
hear you” to a grudge who complained about
exact change too long, break-dancers fade
on the library steps until their fast-talk
tunes are inaudible, and unaccomplished
errands become an entire afternoon. Blocks
from soup kitchens and flea-bagged rooms,
brick walls laundering the slumped with
sun, there’s more than enough tidying up
to do, more creviced dust for any broom.
Star Black, from her book Waterworn (1995)
I’m loving this book of sonnets. “Tender-hearted” makes this poem. Laura, I thought of you when reading this.