There are people. Tiny people.
There have always been tiny people.
The kind of people who stop at red
Traffic lights and walk old ladies across
The streets, who share what they eat,
Who walk to the beat of rhythm and control
These tiny people, they don’t pretend to know
It all, they amble and stroll and smile at strangers
Never fearing they are in danger because they are
Always in the backdrop of paintings, the pale creams
And muddied greys and they pretend to be ok with
Their place in things, these tiny people have tiny
Wings. It takes a microscope, a magnifying glass and
No one ever asks to see, they don’t believe these
Individuals have specialties, they are not big or large
Or loud, they are not cynical, radical or proud, they
Are just people, invisible to most, the soft spoken
Host, the devoted mother and son and child, they
See worth in worthwhile. I see worth in tiny people.