
Nothing changes after the year
we spend our Sunday mornings
offering tea to the homeless
in the shadow of the Mission,
you know, fashion
philanthropy.
No paradise, no floats in
the parade, no graphs moving
up or down. We still wake up
to the same mornings,
our hungry souls staring at
their hungry souls staring
at our breakfasts
through the television set.
The last time I looked the
world doesn’t operate
according to serving tea on
Sundays. It just keeps
turning and spitting out more
sadness, and we stick around
for those few occasions when
something goes right.

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