Difficulty moves me to sadness.
I empathize with ordinary people.
They struggle. I notice.
Clenched fists and imperviousness,
Resistance to comments about status,
Safety, and standing of health,
This dangerous attitude
Restricts every thoughtful view
From resonating with the fellow in struggle.

And what I fear is that –
Of all the gentlemen and ladies that attend supermarkets to buy groceries to feed their families,
Whose grimaces stare me down –
They merely represent a fraction of the total population.
Assist them? I wonder.
Interact and smile as they carry about monotonously?
As depression swells in their eyes?

Surprise! I stand by.
Unsatisfied with myself,
I ponder and plunder over comings and goings.
What small actions could impact this cashier?
Does my “thank you” for separating the meats from the milk mean nothing at all?
I continue to worry on their behalf.

Short stacks of cash,
Limited dollars match with their names.
In shame I expand my horizons,
Calibrate my definition
Over these superstitions which are self-damaging.
I accept nature as beautiful,
And count myself the lucky boy from Roberta, a street without trees.
Few still remain, at least.
Called such for a horse that once grazed overseas,
A cabbie said years ago.