Callous

I shouldn't make too much of this,
I tell myself, as I maintain my stride
And dodge the outstretched hand.
There's only so much one can do,
And though it's clear I haven't done
It, how much difference would it
Make? The streets are rife with
Tragedies. The lame will labor
Over curbs. The crazies rant and
Beg to drink, and, even among
Those who move with me and
Maintain their composure, there's
A woman who was raped, a man
Whose father beat him with a
Belt; a scar on every body.
Save one? What good would that
Do? Move on. So little harm
Is done. I should not make too
Much of this, but I know someone
Else will stop, someone who is,
For unknown reasons, better than
I'll ever be, which makes me wish
I could be good. I look back at the
Outstretched hand. I can't. I won't
Turn back to it. I maintain my stride.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 55 times
Written on 2014-09-28 at 13:23

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