Patience

By Cielo Sampogna

Patience.

Like digging at a concrete wall with a plastic spoon.

Wanting to scoop out giant chunks.

Instead, scooping up a bent utensil. 

Utensil, you are not made for stabbing concrete.

Why are you being used for contention?

Your primary use is to get to know the concrete friend;

why are you picking at it with judgement?

No matter. Pick at me with your miss-used spoon. I break not.

But if you keep trying and trying

I might end up chipping and chipping.

But I am strong.

I remember hearing the swears he ear-whispered.

He constantly insulted like a tower behind me.

Walking down the seemingly innocent middle school hallways,

crowded unaware students

focused on getting to the next class.

No matter the countless days he'd lean in uncomfortably close,

hushed his contention in my young ears,

I keep walking.

Inconsiderate curses did not manipulate my mind,

"Fucking bitch." 

Trying to convince me.

"Maybe he's right" never entered me.

Heard his swears, did not listen.

Yet, I allowed him.

Why?

Because of my patience?

Because of my strong will? 

My will, stepped on.

But I am strong.

My strong will is a doormat.

People with fear, anger dust their feet.

Leftover dirt residue, transferred onto me.

My purpose, piece of fabric, lying at the foot of the entrance. 

People let out their frustrations on me,

Like a muddy shoe; few wipes, they're clean,

momentarily from the outdoor filth they endured.

I wash it from them, with:

Patient water, listening soup, and strong-willed cloth.

Walk all over me, make me seem unnoticed,

but I know their gratitude.

They yearn for someone to vent on: 

Doormats.

I can handle the dirt,

the mud 

and not allow it to effect who I really am:

A welcome to the warmth of indoors.

I am strong.