To Rosetta

As I was walking through Washington Park in the Over-the-Rhine district of Cincinnati, I saw the following poem written on a sign and jotted it down. Poverty is beautiful.

To Rosetta

I'm not ignoring the bad times we
     spent together,
When I say I love you.
But, the bad times -- I understood them,
The good times -- I cherish them.

And here we are now
thinking what it all means.
Thinking over the years together, years
     of hard struggle.
And in some ways we reach this
     point, you and me,
in the same way we began a few
     years ago,
struggling to survive,
looking for a home,
learning together a vision of all
     people's struggle.

Your love shown strong, warm in
     a basic way.
Only two bites of food, you'd want
     me to have one.
Two blankets, one was offered me. And
     if only one, over half was mine.
An empty, unheated Vine Street flat,
We scavenged survival necessities
     together.
A roached up stove, an old refrigerator,
a rusty heater,
from missionary centers and abandoned
     buildings.

Lines of swallowed pride
and growing understanding.

Summers watching children growing
     up together
with mothers sitting on front stoops
     and fire escapes
to escape the apartment heat and
     closeness.
The sidewalks a playground until alleys
     and strangers
present a challenge.

Soaking in the deep, solid, pervading
spirit that rises from the street.

Memories of you coming around the
     corner,
or up the street,
or through the door, with love,
with spirit, with a heavy burden,
     with fight.
You put your arm around someone
or lift the group with a fighting song.
Determined not to let the system or
     anyone
Break the bond we have.

Thinking what it all means,
Thinking over the years together,
     determined to carry on.

- Unknown