THE PROMPT WAS....

By Leslie Jones

“What feels tender?” Heart feels tender. Tenderloin.

Where did that come from? From the post WWII 1950’s of America.

Memories slip in and out like a San Francisco fog

In the Tenderlion District, thin, elusive, vague

Then images crystalize sharp and biting

Like the clanging of cable cars

Like the acrid city smells of exhaust fumes and stale street food.

A man stands on short stumps where his legs used to be

Leaning forward on a board with wheels

Scooting, low to the ground

Using his gritty, grimy hands and arms in place of his lost feet and legs

Dragging himself across asphalt streets and concrete

Begging for coins with his tin cup.

I remember feeling sad and sorry for him

I remember wondering in silence

“Why isn’t someone helping him?”

“Why isn’t someone helping him?”

And what does a child with few words

And an aching heart do with that kind of impression of the world?

Tuck it away, let it drift in the twilight dream of childhood

Forget about it, ferment it, until decades later

It floats itself back up into consciousness

And writes its own poem from a simple prompt

“What feels tender?”