For the Caring

nicotine stained fingers holding

an empty paper coffee cup

into which I throw a drop

of attention,

a few metallic clinks

of exhausted empathic statements,

perhaps a loose button or two,

some pocket lint and wrinkled coupons,

in exchange for

meditations on what i’m becoming,

and how i’m becoming,

departing the daydream

of doing this perfectly, always,

or that this was a wealth I could

keep replenished

as though I had a Midas touch,

knowing my feelings now are not as much

as when I was new to the city and

made eye contact with its plights, because

it used to be something I could fight,

a cup I could fill up, every time.