Raining down love
and warm feelings
doesn’t grow a person,
doesn’t feed a family,
doesn’t secure a nation,
barely the sound of a single hand
straining to applaud its own
ingenuity, barely a
trash bag cut lengthwise for a blanket
in the evening swell of wind, as it rises
like a starlet’s dress over a street grate,
that warm rush of summerish air kissing exposed flesh,
blowing the covering up to the sky and blotting out the moon,
I am so proud of myself
for all I have accomplished
in your names,
I’m just going to give myself a minute
and soak up the goodwill with this unspent rag, saturate it,and
ring it over the mouths of the thirsty, then wait to be washed clean in their adoration.