I can paint.
I can write.
I have collected these talents in my pockets like coins, like warm potatoes wrapped in foil held in mittened
hands along my stomach heating red embers not seen by the others as we stand at the stop raise our voices to the day and burn burn burn with the warmth of our fire
they too hold embers in their abdomens plumes of smoke rise as their true expression catches hold and flames.
Who are we to know anything if not our self?
This is a life’s work.
This is life’s worth.
There is nothing I know.
I hold what I hope it true and take a bite.