A pigeon pecks at crumbs, somewhere
Is the measure, the scales
Balanced between hunger and full.
In the alleyway, shadows turn
Quietly, without fanfare;
The man with the cigarette,
Squinting through the smoke,
Knows where excellence hides—
In the overlooked, the shoes
Worn at the heel, the laughter
That floats up like a balloon,
Lost to the clouds. His hand,
Rough with work, gently
Lifts the thought, a delicate
Moth wing in the cold morning.
We live on choices,
Between the cobblestones,
Grains of sand blown together,
There is no universal rule,
Only a crooked path, winding
Through the necessary and the hopeful,
Detailed by reason, and the hunch
Of wisdom misplaced. The wisest
Eyes peer from behind curtains,
Silently weighing the notes,
The history of scales, to tell us
Nothing is given freely,
Everything balanced on the edge
Of a wise man’s breath,
Disappearing softly, unseen.