handle with care (written last September)

A person is never an only or just a anything
just a diner waitress spreads her soul on canvas
between lunch shifts, hoping (barely)
she can one day be more than
more than anything she’s ever really believed herself capable of
Her art is genius, hidden, safe under cover
She has heard easy opinions, hurled discouragement
flung in the air like sport, for a laugh
at the expense of an absent one
If her soul’s craft were to receive these darts
it would be the death knell for her dream
Not so much a dream though really
more of a must. She must paint
breathe out color, slow her mind, shed her tears
be wrapped in joy, right here
How many are like her? How varied their gifts?
How sad we should miss out for lack of verbal discretion
unaware our scattered assessments of imperfection
leave a trail of veiled beauty