You have to want to find tenderness on Main Street.
She does not advertise her location the way the merchants do,
but more like hides behind locked doors as though wary
of tough customers, and peeks through parted curtains.
When she steps out she wears the dress of poverty
in the manner of one come to harm before, the better
to be thought of no worth. She affects empty eyes, tightly
drawn lips, gritted teeth, the face of those who chase
a buck like a rush hour bus pulling from the curb.
She would pass for the common fare of Main Street.

If you are kin to me, you will some days want that street
American, making straight for places wide open
with barely time for a syllable and more to do than say.
Too, some days, you will shudder at the shadow of it.
You will not fall in line at the corner. You will lose time
to lean at the blind man's wall and wish you could see
what you see. How have you gone so long without
tenderness? What has become of her since she last gentled
you whiles ago? By whom but her could you be touched?
You have to want to find tenderness on Main Street.