The Sign

I saw him standing on the hot summer sidewalk
A young man made old by a razor-blade life
Straggly hair, days-old stubble, broken eyes
We’ve all seen him as we go about our orderly lives
Just another beggar most of us ignore
Just another doomsday prophet wasting away on a street corner
But
Then I read the handwritten sign he holds in front of his chest
“You are love – don’t let the bastards kill it”
I stop
You are love – don’t let the bastards kill it
Am I love?
Am I really love?
In this word-violent, physically-violent world, can I be love?
Can you be love?
And, damn, if we are, let’s not let the bastards kill it