Stranger He Knew

When darkness
turned its brush
on his heart
in paint the color
of livid bruising,
she reached far
and knocked
on his entry,
     tapping
     an inquiry,
breaking his
introspection
of sorrow in words,
the bothers of a man
hid behind a stout
door of oak and brass,
heavy hinged,
     a second appeal
     louder,
he looked up,
opened the door
to a stranger
from the street,
a city castoff,
standing just aside
the revealing light,
she had a word for him,
a scrap of paper
scratched with verses
of what he knew
about ideal love,
wishes from his heart
through the ghost
of another world,
they'd blown away,
written in
another mind,
another time,
carried far
in updrafts,
car exhausts
to her
understanding eyes,
straight speak,
she shares
of the truth
she sees in him
and his words,
and more,
as she stands
part way
inside his
open door,
and he wonders
how a stranger,
born from the heart of a poet,
came to know more of him
in so few scribbled words,
than others who'd
glanced over him for a life.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013