Living on the margins,
Surviving moment to moment,
Ignored by almost everyone
Except for the very few
Who understand that
They might have been
That very person.
Mom would always
Look stoically into
The distance as
We stood in line
To get that week’s
Staples, handed to
Us in bags, provided
By people we never met
But who had hearts
Able to feel for others
Who might not have
The same opportunities
As them or who are
Where they once were.
Looking through the window
He sees only war, perceiving
Everything as a battle,
As something to be won,
An adversary to be exterminated.
“When something bad is
Lurking around every corner,
Ready to attack you,
You have to hit first,”
He mutters automatically.
The world viewed as a dangerous place,
Where everyone is an enemy
Who must be engaged with violence,
Internal turmoil played out in public,
Only one direction to go in.
The easiest task imaginable,
Denounce hatred and violence.
He sees things through a filter
Of pain, detachment, habit, privilege.
His father’s voice reverberating
In his head, muttering atrocities.
There will be no healing today,
Nor perhaps ever.
On sordid display, a flailing child,
Tantrum in full progress.
People of conscience
Rising to fill the void.
He doesn’t have a big problem
With paying taxes so
Children can go to school,
Even though he has no kids.
He’s just fine with having
Some of his money going to
Help the less fortunate.
He doesn’t think twice about
Treating people like fellow
Human beings, even when
They don’t look like him.
He just goes about his
Business happily, knowing he’s
Contributing to a greater whole.
