He is not a graceful person
He is not a Sunday morning
Not the dew-cooled, sun rise
Casting glorious shadows over golden plains
He is Tuesday at 2 a.m.
Gunshots muffled by city blocks
A broken window at the beginning of winter
An experience of illness without wealth
His bones crack on a nightly basis
His two left feet are never elegant
And he apologizes profusely for his awkward sadness
He sometimes believes he shouldn’t be around people
That he belongs to all the leap days of February
And all of the prayers gone unanswered.
The way the light and darkness mix
Under his skin has become a storm
You may not see the lightning in his eyes
But at his heart, you can hear the trembles
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