Sacred ritual

There are two men in a trash pile
That I see everyday
As I walk to and from school
One shirtless
And with all the enthusiasm
Of a bottle of soda shaken up
About to bubble over.
He sorts through the bags
For what, I’m not sure
The second in a tank top
Sitting in an old lawn chair
Observing the first
Older, frailer, quieter
Sometimes smoking
Sometimes drinking
When he walks, his steps are slow
Pained
And yet resolute.
Unlike the first, he is not quick to smile
But when he does
It’s the most beautiful thing.
I wonder at the stories
That have shaped his life
But have no way to ask

This man taught the first to say
Good morning, good afternoon
Good evening and good night
To greet me in English
Properly
Whatever time I walk by.
They show me the things
the first has found
A hat
An umbrella
An old phone
And then we take leave
And I continue on my way.
This is our daily ritual.

If the sacred exists
I think it is big enough
to encompass
The ground
And the people
At the trash pile.