Homeless Aritan

Size ten print on my face
laced with fear
of another from a brother
who'd struck at my luck,
I tucked back to embryo,
and then there was Sam.

Flinch...
his hands stayed open and low,
Sam had nothing to show
for his forty one years of tears,
a life where he'd lost a daughter
and wife.
A life where he eats only scraps and rice,
a ife where he paints phone cards
for food,
a life?

A life where he smiles whatever his mood
because Sam is alive and that was enough.
You didn't know me Sam,
stopped the size ten
carried me to rest
fed me rice
talked me home,
wanted nothing,
Sam Aritan,
you
know
something.