Snapshot: Rusty Gas Pump

The beauty is not in rust

Or desolation,

It is in the untold stories

Of a million hands

Laid upon this pump,

Stretching across many yesterdays,

With their forgotten heartaches.

 

To see the beauty in humanity,

Of humanity,

One was must never

Trade in one’s own humanity

In exchange for a license to judge

Or permission to condemn;

All the good we can build

Must build upon what good

There already is.

 

Steel forged in Pennsylvania,

Gasoline from the Turner Valley,

Hands of travelers through Florida,

And this wanderer, from Georgia,

All in this place, though some

Only years ago, heading into the

The future on the river of time,

Which leaves behind,

In pools and eddies,

Reminders that we still share

More in common

Than the vain among us

Want to admit.

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