As part of my therapy, I write a lot. On the blog, off the blog, poems, of things I see, hear, touch, taste, and feel.
I hope you'll enjoy...
To think that in a small way I hold his destiny in the palm of my hand.
He looks like there is nothing he can do or say.
begging for a small token, a dime, a quarter, a penny.
Anything that will enable him to move on.
Dirty, cold, haggard, despised by all that see him.
In the warmth of my car,
at a red light I see his face
and then mine
and all the pain that he feels, in the split second it takes for it to turn green.
I move along
like the herd, but feel for him.
I could have handed an outreached hand,
a bill, folded and neatly pressed.
Instead I decide that time is pressing and I have no time to stop.
He has all the time in the world.
The clepsydra, the solar quadrant, the sun and moon are the only ticking devices
that define what his world is.
Nothing else matters in the grand scheme of things.
He haunts me.
I could have, should have stopped.
Volition that was unaccomplished.
His despair seeps through his body and soul,
and I feel it still today.
Why didn't I help?