I look out the window
to see who goes there.
I see someone having cold feet
and a very hot face.
All I could do is to watch
him eat his life away.
I thought I’d dig up a dollar or so
maybe it’ll help them get by
but I can’t be doing that all the time
because then, would I do it right?
So when I peer out the window
I see them without shoes
and without homes.
But what can I do? I ask.
They’re having such cold feet tonight
and hot faces to burn in their human heat.
Could I just take all of them in
and perhaps show them what life has to offer?
Or could I just sigh and look away
and think of nothing I can deliver.
So here I am, with all I can do.
All I can write about them
and hope that they’ll do what they must
for themselves, to themselves
to make it important, to make it real.
How can I bend back to feel what you feel?
Why should I shed my tears for you?
When you could climb out as easily as you got in?
I’m not going to use you
to ease my conscience.
For you are not even hope as hope can be
you are breaking every branch of the tree.
Tie yourselves to the roots of depression
lay there and blame my decision.
But you have made rare yourself,
you have kept your music untuned,
you have kept your song unsung,
you have kept your words unheard,
you have kept your poems unrhymed.
So what can I do like what I do best?
I write about your sadness
about your uneasiness.
I ask what I can do for you
and I ask what you can do for yourself.
If I break my heart for you
to feel your cold feet
would your face still feel as hot
as your raging body heat?
If I break my back for you
to help you off the ground,
would you stand on your cold feet
and touch me with your eager heat?
Or would I just be fooling myself
as I write these words for you?
Am I trying to play God
and try to be an angel too?
For thinking of you only in words,
maybe I’ll sing it, maybe I won’t
maybe if you could just help me
by making yourself what you want to be.