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"One Little Candle"
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Her Trash Can

In the dimming light of the
street, Her palsied hands, picking over
the debris of someone else's leavings,
she takes each piece out as one
would go through the finest items
in a store each handled carefully.

In her tattered rags surrounding her,
her sing song voice exclaiming
over items discarded or kept, as
she places them carefully in her
basket. As I stand and watch,
my heart overfilling with compassion,
knowing that if I approach her
resentmet will show and be directed
at me. In my horror, I watch
as she eats of garbage left
there, knowing she's
filling an empty belly.

Hat covering her hair, wispy and
gray, gloves covering hands knotted with
age and grime, In complete bewilderment,
I realize that this women, could
be someones' mother, grandmother, sister, wife.

It comes to me stand here shivering
in this cold, our abadonment
of our trash is the living of
another. The refuse of humanity's
pickings Where have we
gone wrong in this society?
Watching as she talks to herself,
seemingly content in her chore.

As I glance back again, tears
are making way down her weathered
cheeks, she's holding a cup in
her hand, trancing with one bent
finger an outline of a flower.
My heart stopping with grief watching,
wanting to fill whatever void she
finds in the trash can, picking
our discards, shifting as if there
was a bounty of gold, but
realizing that for her, it's a
lively hood of sorts. I come
back again to see if there
is a pattern, and notice that
she's there rummaging through her hoarded
trash can filling her void.

I approach the can in daylight
hours, putting in a coat for
warmth, hat,and gloves wrapped in dark
plastic to keep out the smells
which are revolting me. Leaving small
canned foods and an opener, praying
to God that this will remain
for her, as she drudges up
the refuse from her store.
In this season of giving,
my heart cries out for the
trash can store.

Copyright 1999 Gwenn A. Lewis

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