TERESA WHITE

  

Resurrection

Abandoned tires rest against
one another. An exhausted mattress,
stuffing escaped, leans against a hobo camp—
the refuse of a fire in a rusty coffee can
smolders under winter's milk-blue sky.

A single shoe stubs downward
in the derelict soil—a lone sock trails behind.
Over a rise, I see a wheelchair
teetering on the bank. I wonder
who left it or what Lazarus has risen—
sockless, with one shoe,
above the raging river.