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.