Hands of Smoke

I sit in the open lobby of the shelter,
exposed to the Winter cold and breeze,
burning my little stick of incense in
the non-smokers corner while the other
residents down here sit within their
spa of cigarette smoke and puff
on ways on getting out of here.

I burn my little stick of incense while
security sits at his desk hoping nobody
chooses his shift to turn into a 3,000
year old maniac cursing and swearing
at all living things daring the police
to fulfill his destiny.

I burn the herbs as a madman paces and
the Earth travels around the Sun.

Smoke rises from my humble stick
as the flowers die from cancer and
love is just a band-aid for starvation.

My incense burns as a man more homeless
than me digs with his hands through a
dumpster thick with waste and stink for
any sign of G-d’s existence while tyrants
in nicely shined black shoes and high-heels
dance in private rooms to salsa music.

My lowly stick of incense burns its smoke
rising to the Underworld.

It is calm this evening.

Even the Moon just lets it’s phone ring.