Poem: Pick up the bottles.

There’s a man on my street who picks up the bottles
Shattered or whole, empty or full, it doesn’t matter.

This man might be crazy, or maybe it’s crazy faith,
But he’s doing his part to make our world a better place.

This man without a home, doing what must be done.
He won’t stop until the streets are clean again.

Will he trade in his rescued glass for a profit? He might.
But I think he works because he knows what beauty looks like.

Each, in our own way, we must pick up the bottles.
Shattered or whole, empty or full, it doesn’t matter.

It might be crazy, or crazy faith,
Still, we write. We serve. We heal. We create.

For love, for beauty, we move mountains and pens.
We won’t stop until the world is whole again.