what do you know
that i do not,
i, without degrees,
without success,
with a job, not a career,
with a list of grievances,
wishes and dreams
grander than the Pillars of Creation.

what do you know
that i do not,
i, without a pension,
without a list of birthdays
i must not forget,
without those regular payments
on the first and fifteenth
of every month.

nothing and everything,
as i know
nothing and everything,
that you do not.

you do not know
what the angels draw for me
at 3:00am.
i do not know
how your second child
wailed then whimpered
then huddled and finally slept
at 3:00am.

you know

nothing and everyhing,
as i know
nothing and everything,
that you do not.

and somewhere in that ocean of knowing
i sample a salty drop
you have never tasted
and you taste a salty tear
i have never tasted,
on the face of a child
or the back of your hand

and we both understand
some small mystery,
some revelation
granted to no other life
in the eternal Story
written in rivulets and gasps
on the tattered veil
of Heaven itself.