Was a broken stick
in a scared boy’s grip

as he used my point
to ward off a bully.

A poor weapon, brittle and weak,
available, close at hand;

did my best to help. He got away.
My best was barely enough.

Was a sign
in a marcher’s grasp,

streaked with runny ink
in a storm.

When the troops began
to fire, was tossed 

in defiance
toward armed and armored men;

was just enough distraction
to let my bearer get away.

Was firewood, kindling,
one scrap in a heap

near a homeless family’s 
small fire. Somehow

stayed dry enough
to help light a new blaze

after a drenching rain, then
was consumed and forgotten.

Have let myself be used
often, as often as possible,

but only when I thought
I could be of service

to something larger
than my poor self.

Was never much 
on being noticed

or praised or exalted. Tried
to leave that for those I served.

Enough that 
I did my small part.

Enough to have done
something to assist.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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