Today, poets.org suggests you put a poem in your pocket to share with your friends and family.  This is one of Stacey R's favorites:
Preludes, T.S. Eliot
I
              The winter evening settles down
               With smell of steaks in passageways.
               Six o'clock.
               The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
               And now a gusty shower wraps
               The grimy scraps
               Of withered leaves about your feet
               And newspapers from vacant lots;
               The showers beat
              On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
              And at the corner of the street
              A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
              And then the lighting of the lamps.
 
II
            The morning comes to consciousness
             Of faint stale smells of beer
             From the sawdust-trampled street
             With all its muddy feet that press
             To early coffee-stands.
 
            With the other masquerades
             That time resumes,
             One thinks of all the hands
             That are raising dingy shades
             In a thousand furnished rooms.
 
III
            You tossed a blanket from the bed,
             You lay upon your back, and waited;
             You dozed, and watched the night revealing
             The thousand sordid images
             Of which your soul was constituted;
             They flickered against the ceiling.
             And when all the world came back
             And the light crept up between the shutters
             And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
             You had such a vision of the street
             As the street hardly understands;
             Sitting along the bed's edge, where
             You curled the papers from your hair,
             Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
             In the palms of both soiled hands.
 
IV
            His soul stretched tight across the skies
             That fade behind a city block,
             Or trampled by insistent feet
             At four and five and six o'clock;
             And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
             And evening newspapers, and eyes
             Assured of certain certainties,
             The conscience of a blackened street
             Impatient to assume the world.
 
            I am moved by fancies that are curled
             Around these images, and cling:
             The notion of some infinitely gentle
             Infinitely suffering thing.
 
            Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
             The worlds revolve like ancient women
             Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
Original text: T. S. Eliot, 
Prufrock and Other Observations (London: The Egoist, 1917): 24-26.