The Mark

On every stoop a paper.
At 149 Shotwell Park, a balloon,
a box of chocolates, a sheaf of roses.
It’s six AM. Another hour, and doors will open.
Men and women in various shades of gray
will shuffle out, yawning, to pick up
their Post-Standards and Wall Street Journals.
At 149 Shotwell Park, one woman,
(or maybe a man) will touch the roses
and burst into peach and pink and gold,
her robe glowing emerald, jade
and electric chicory blue.
Someone here is loved. And you,
for whom I wrote this poem,
you also bear the mark. Go to the mirror
and touch your shining face.

Cheryl Gatling

published in Comstock Review