georgia/memorial weekend

 

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If you have been following this blog, you know that my “Mary” post was drawn from a bad poem, one of many bad poems that I authored. “Atlanta” was another such poem, written after several trips and several attempts to find something to love about that city. While Atlanta is a lovely and vibrant town, we never quite connected until one evening when I found myself alone and waiting for my ride on an unfamiliar and pedestrian empty street, my son and husband circling the block and apparently stuck in traffic. I watched a homeless man limping his way toward me, beaten by poverty and circumstance and a whiskey diet, frail enough that I probably could have pushed him over, strong enough to make me move closer to the street light and wrap myself in defensive stance. My pale form was a beacon of white. He stopped 5 feet from my face, spat, spoke, “I thought you was an angel,” and continued around me as if I were never there. For a split second in time, I was.

 

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