They are all the same, though their frames are different.
Silver, red, blue and black… a line of cars sit in a row,
as their drivers speak into a speaker and listen to garbled tones.
At the window will be a drink made-to-order.
A custom cup served up with a smile,
steaming-hot or chilled on ice, but steeped in attention no less.
Me in my in plaid blue shirt, the one with the pocket once torn.
Thoughtfully this shirt was mended for me; I cannot escape that stream of affection.
And I grin when thinking of the little foot that did the tearing.
Caught up in today’s rush torn garments are of little value,
they are discarded without a second thought;
with little regard for the hands capable of mending.
I consider the careful fingers able to do the stitching…
somehow their care makes it into the weave, I have a feeling.
The few stiches over my chest give me a full suit of armor.
Perhaps the hands that serve our tea offer the same kinds of blessing;
hands attending to battered hearts and words to tired minds.
We are line of wounded persons being steeped in careful attention.