Non-Erotic PoetrydiscriminationThe old man sits
on a metal
folding chair
protected from the
steady dripping rain
by the plastic paneled shield
that surrounds the
bodega.
His dignified hands
are sheathed in
gardening gloves
as he skillfully strips
thorns from the stems of
white, honorable roses.
His isolation is distracting
and it is not
his language, culture
or education
that separates
him
from the world,
but the almost invisible,
plastic shield
that is dividing.
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