Wednesday, March 31, 2004
How easy we forget ourselves?
We are drained of all compassion at the beep of the horn
a deep whiff of the city
I watched her walking up and down the avenue today
the crack whore in blue jeans with long dark hair and shiny white jacket
shoulder bag cluched under her arm
Her desperation was so focused it floated across the street without obfuscation
with hawklike intent, she stared down each car
Her very existance rattled my illusion of security
It was only 9 a.m. for chrissake.
But not too early for a fix, eh?
Was she the one who tried to steel my car stereo on Tuesday?
What did she do with my parking garage pass, anyway?
I didn't think, "Oh, poor thing."
or "Can't someone, shouldn't someone help her."
I noticed our matched pace.
as we walked in parallel likeness
She on her side of the Ave and me across the street
Well, freak me the fuck out!
I had to cross to reach my destination
I was afraid of crossing paths
Determined not to get to close
not close enough to see in her eyes
Because I knew
If I were that close
I would not be able to look the other way
and I did not know
still do not want to know
what it feels like to walk
where people are crossing to go to work
with such a singularly selfish notion hogging my attention
enough that forsight is a joke
tomorrow is not allowed to exist
I walked more quickly and even more quickly
And almost ran across the street
I did not look to see how close we had come
It's not that I had lost my compassion
It hadn't vanished
My mind was absent for that moment
But it has let her reality haunt me all day
Lunch has passed and now in that late afternoon slump
I wonder if she's scored yet.
