The Low Whisper
Under the marble that shines in the sun,
towers of steel and the fountains of bliss,
spending my days on the streets of L.A.
Knowing of nothing that’s better than this!
Flowers are hidden in planters and walks,
patches of grass by the benches and stairs,
blue is the august air warming my day,
people are pleasantly sitting in chairs.
Tired of my walking I think of the bus,
farther I’ve parked on the south end of town,
grimy and dirty the streets have become,
anxiously waiting I sit myself down.
Limping along with a filthy wrapped leg,
asking for money, indifferent I share.
Turning my head, while in interest I see,
someone beside me who really does care.
Giving a dollar, concern in his eyes,
wanting to know of his struggle and strife,
wishing him safety and prayers for his cause,
lifting him gently, and giving him life.
Giving him joy that transformed his sad eyes,
silently watching and listening I heard--
something inside me was whispering low,
money is useless without a kind word.