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Downtown by the tent city
Where the homeless people live
There are regular people too
But they just walk by
Mostly it’s the homeless kind of people
I feel guilty about having stuff
So I give them some regular people stuff
Now we’re the same
They are happy and I am happy
One of them gives back
A dollar for my kids
We both gave but we’re not the same now
He broke the deal
He’s supposed to accept my charity
And I’m supposed to feel charitable
Now I feel guilty again
He ruined it

-T. Weeks
(A response to “To Rich Givers”)

What a time to be
To see such danger rising
To write fear parasitic
To smell the rot of paranoia
To paint the tragic blush
To gasp at lights swinging.
As the seismograph claws a panicked beat
We play chicken with our fate.
What will be said of us?
That we gilded this age
Or took it head on running?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Sit and Look Out”)

Giant stones planted deep but not growing
Immovable permanent
Sentries of the valley
Devout to their tectonic birth
Elbows in the river bend but not flowing
Canvas of life but not living

-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a President”)

There it is again
A breeze giggling
In pine branches
High above a sunny park
Shade bouncing
Playfully in the sand
This is perfect

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Perfections”)

There is a verse in this powerful play
Persisting beyond the curtain
Recited, reused, plagiarized
A line to launch a thousand shows
Lights and faces peer on stage
Panning for the precious nugget
There’s my cue… Line?!

-T. Weeks
(A response to “O Me! O Life!)

Relativistic space waltzing above
Time dilating
Length contracting
Cosmic lovers, energy and matter
Riding the fabric unfurling

Quantum world churning below
Time and energy
Position and momentum
Saboteurs seeking uncertainty
Wave functions crashing everywhere

-T. Weeks
(A response to “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”)

With strange creatures
On a wild planet
I’m an alien in space
Racing ’round a lonely star
Winking from the corner
Of a constellation rising
In another’s warm dark sky

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Germs”)

I don’t know much, I see very little
We all see something different
My little view makes me

If your God knows all and sees all
Then he can’t be sure he’s He
Or if he’s just the ghost of us

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Gods”)

An empty fridge is extra bright
No gallons three quarters gone
Cloud the flowering light
The wide space left by an open door
Frames a hungry face illuminated

-T. Weeks
(A response to “A Hand-Mirror”)