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Tim Seibles
TWIN
A few hours ago, a man
some call mentally
challenged told me
about his pulled tooth.
“Still hurts bad,”
he said. People walked by,
their shadows cursive
in the late sun.
This man—white,
maybe forty—spoke
as though he knew me,
knew I would know
a way to stop the pain.
I’d seen him around—
unsure in the crosswalk,
sipping free cocoa
at the coffee shop—
said hello a couple times.
His eyes held that
first ache, that hope
we hold before time
hardens our faces
and I understood
for a moment—my life
and his: what it means
to suffer quietly on Earth,
confused by the way
things are—having
no idea really,
what to do
or who to ask.