Charity

Tracy K. Smith

She is like a squat old machine,

Off-kilter but still chugging along

The uphill stretch of sidewalk

On Harrison Street, handbag slung

Crosswise and, I’m guessing, heavy.

And oh, the set of her face, her brow’s

Profound tracks, her mouth cinched,

Lips pressed flat. Watching her

Bend forward to tussle with gravity,

Watching the berth she allows each

Foot (as if one is not on civil

Terms with the other), watching

Her shoulders braced as if lashed

By step after step after step, and

Her eyes’ determination not to

Shift, or blink, or rise, I think:

I am you, one day out of five,

Tired, empty, hating what I carry

But afraid to lay it down, stingy,

Angry, doing violence to others

By the sheer freight of my gloom,

Halfway home, wanting to stop, to quit

But keeping going mostly out of spite.