He comes toward me
Slowly, slumped over,
Heavy baskets in each hand
And a heavy sack slung across his back.
He walks; no he limps to the corner,
Awaiting the signal to cross the street.
For a brief moment his eyes meet mine,
And for that brief moment all his pain, all his shame
And all his hopelessness is injected into me.
His eyes tell the story of his life.
In one moment it was as if he sat me down
And told me everything,
Spelling out the injustice of his existence.

The dark green iris set against pale white,
The heavy eyelids struggling just to stay open
Sang, trumpet-tongued, of all he is, all he was,
And all he’ll never be.

Greg Bercos ’06
from a journal kept last summer
during the Wabash Ecuadorian
Studies Program