The homeless on a warm spring day

 

 

The gypsies keep coming back to me.  They need me to hold their hearts.  They say it is because they are always picking up what others drop.  Invisible somethings

that I cannot always see.

 

It is incomprehensible the way they smile with their eyes.  And the way they carry a small bent cart stacked high with more invisible things.  I wonder why the thin dogs drag along beside their dusty skirts instead of hunting rabbits.  They tell me they are loyal dogs.

 

The gypsies are at home in their homelessness.  Their hands are filled when they walk with music.  But I sit behind my car’s window quiet as my own emptiness trying not to join them.

 

After they walk away jingling like birds and rain,  I’m not  sure they were ever really there.

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