Among the Shabby Tents

He sits in dust among the shabby tents

on the other side of the blazing fire

and bids us “Come.” 

Our fine and bulging clothes glow in the fire’s light;

over dressed and blinded, we stumble toward the voice

that bids us, nonetheless, to “Come.”

“Sit,” and the dust is all we see;

sweat from the heat 

will turn our dust to mud.

“Eat,” and with enthusiasm bread and water

are held out to us with the joy of a banquet.

“Live,” and our being snaps and burns

like the embers.

“Go,” and we reach for clothes 

more suited to the dust.

Terry W. York