Edith Piaf Sings Her Broken Heart
Late afternoon in the Tenderloin.
The sun glints on wheelchairs and crutches
and broken glass.
I'm hiding from the world
in this little cafe
and there's a man
sprawled on the sidewalk
next to a walker made of tin.
No one bothers
to check if he is ill or dead,
all of us
as indifferent as the sun.
Another man scours the ground
for things to smoke or to eat
as Edith Piaf sings
her broken heart
and I sit here with a beer and money in my pocket
never knowing whether to feel lucky
or ashamed.
--Willaim Taylor Jr.
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