compassion or cocktails

Tiny - Posted on 11 August 2015

walking down valencia, i see

a woman in a wheelchair

we share hellos and i give

her a buck as i wonder

what her story is—she was

just evicted from her home

or maybe her lover beats her

imagining her hunger and

pain i feel compassion for her

and know i’m the lucky one

because i have a dollar to spare


as i leave to walk on, two young

women well dressed and coifed

pass by—and they too must have

a story—maybe one of them has

just broken up with her boyfriend

or the other is having troubles at

work—but i don’t care nor feel

any compassion for them—for as

they go inside a posh eatery

the struggles and strife of

those living on the street

seem not to matter—

since it seems a birthright

of these young women

to have a silver spoon—so

why be bothered by those

without—when a twelve dollar

cocktail awaits.


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