The Visitors
for Ann Darby

They stand without pity or shame
like tourists on the bridge to your next
great sadness. They have been walking
in bad shoes. They want a cold beer.

They've come with their one small
suitcase, and night's implausible
laundry list. It's late.
They're tired of being poor.

All day the wind fails them, so does
the sky unloosening its sullen
Esperanto. They know the hard
currency of coffee and cheap cigarettes,

the accidental prayer of rain
on a car roof. Priests of indecision
and poor judgment, they reach into
the ancient dark to pull a coin out of thin air.

Call it a gift, a simple benediction,
as they move tenderly through the door
of your best life, whispering
Take it, it's yours. Write this down.

Copyright © 2004 Sylvia Curbelo All rights reserved
from Crab Orchard Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission