He almost enjoyed seeing that day sky turn into night
and watching the beautiful couples walk by—
some of them more beautiful than the word itself.
He put on his bravest face possible since he
was not merely down on his luck, but luck
was down on him and what the future held
seemed to promise only a grim contemplation.
He slept all the way through that night, awakening
to an orange-colored morning and two birds
perched like guardian angels at the top of the bench.
He rose quickly and walked away and most things
did get better, albeit slower than he and this poem
would wish to admit. He relearned gratitude and made
it a part of his vocabulary every chance he got.
But he did miss that vantage point he had had of the sky,
the orange morning, the birds, and the beautiful couples
swishing past. Who said…
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