we asked for this—
I know—
but the embodiment
of this philosophy
we have purported to support
reminds again
that so much of our humanity
is not beautiful or tasteful
or clean
but sloppy,
achingly flawed,
awkward, rough
disappointingly,
predictably weak
in a word—
messy
their very meager existence
is an affront to our aesthetics
these tired brethren
with the poor taste
to be hungry
smelly
needy
these shabby beggars
that unabashedly
hobble through life
as widows, orphans, cripples
bastards and divorcees
take my brother here
standing in my way
blocking the path of my day
his hand out looking for one
I can’t just slip him a bill
and be off
from the looks of him
(that too-sweet reek of him)
he’ll drink my offering
faster than I earned it
so I have to walk with him
buy him lunch
spend time with him
enduring the eyewatering stench
of his presence
before I can be on my way
there’s no photo-op
in this benevolence
the smell of this encounter
which distracts my senses
and will linger with me
all day:
will I ever learn to like it
or at least not notice it so much?
take my sister
the persistence of her loneliness
is like a sick, shrieking infant
I struggle to listen
it requires every ounce of will
just to inquire how she is
knowing she won’t take the polite route
and say she’s fine
like the rest of us have learned to do
knowing she will latch on
and describe every homely detail
every empty, dusty, forlorn corner
of her sad, pathetic, broken life
I will struggle to maintain
eye contact and attention
and try to not fidget
why is it so hard to listen?
why does compassion wear
and give way to frustration?
we don’t get to choose
the members of our family
or the size of it
the ones who most need us
are the ones we believe
we are least like
and would never stoop to befriend
absent some divine impetus
who, then, is my neighbor?
we sigh
because we know the answer:
the thieves
the chronically depressed
the ones who can’t get
or keep a job
the scruffy scofflaws
the cheaters
the drunks
the drugged out
the penniless
the prostitutes
the prisoners
the heretics
the mentally unstable
the whole messy
tired, limping,
begging, crying, howling
fucked up lot
of rejects
we have to accept
yet sons and daughters all
closet royalty
adoption papers in hand
this is our community
this is family
with their rough edges
coarse language
the salt of the earth
thirsting for
and thereby bringing forth
living water
reeling in the darkness
and inexplicably reflecting
the light of the world
how we respond to them
to each other
says everything
about who we are
who made us
what we will be
and whether
what we’re building
will survive
the rains
the winds
the floods
and the inevitable fires of testing
March 2009
Posted by kevinreeve 
Posted by kevinreeve 
Posted by kevinreeve 