Unkind Place

Tiffany Lindfield

In unkind places, Words stick, like splinters, hard to remove. Dust storms, drowned cows, And cowboys. Leaving only hats behind. ‘We’re social animals,’ I heard someone say, Animals, I thought. Baby mice have claws; Have you seen the teeth of bunnies?

‘Look to the helpers,’ The book said, The ones with a hand here, an extra tangerine, Tambourine. Cue the piano; Scooting over on the bus, saying, “you can sit here,” Iced tea—sweet with plain ole’ sugar. Holding their tongues in church, though they really know— The Spirit.

Take a string, connect them, until you near the end: The cashier who smiles, and says, “have a good one,” And means it. To the friend who says, warmly, “I’ll go where you go.” To the other who walks Sunday mornings, Pouring down rain, pointing out birds, Streaking colors in the wind, Like paint smudging on canvas. To the one who puts a silver bracelet on your arm; ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down,’ It reads, And to the other one, and the other, and the other.

Breathe as you unite them, Because helpers are everywhere. And you might get too busy—forget to exhale, As you connect, Those kind faces.