Even the most unlikely messengers have a message.
The business man wasn’t so sure about that,
but that’s what someone told him today.
That business man,
young face, black suit
living the life of elevator music and briefcases
walking the streets to his parking garage
after another day at the office
before he goes home to his mahogany-colored, wine-bottle filled apartment.
He glances at the curb,
a place he usually doesn’t look
and sees an old face,
body emaciated, bruised, sprawled and passed out.
Bystander affect grips his thoughts like an iron vice.
“Someone else will assist,
I am not his keeper.”
With those kind of people around,
he wishes he had car doors around him to lock.
He walks faster
towards his wine awaiting him at home.
Down the other side of the street
waltzes a young face, torn black T-shirt
walking the streets; just another day at home
living the life of grit.
Where will he get his lunch? He shrugs, but
sees the old face on the curb, nudges the man awake
and offers out his hand.