Again

Amiga, amiga.

Good price for you.

Almost free today.

Bonita.  Guapa.  

Whistles.  Kiss faces.

Honking.  Waving.

But then there is 

The poor woman, 

sitting demurely

outside the church.

Skin dark, wrinkled,

like leather,

curled into the rough, rocky wall, 

her hand quietly cupped,

silently asking for help.  

Can this be called begging?

She utters not one word.

Not one sound escapes her lips.

She never raises her eyes to meet ours.

But, then again,

mine never stooped to meet hers.

We were both there, 

in that moment,

quietly avoiding 

the other's

eyes.

Both

crying inside.

Wondering why Fate

placed us together in 

this moment

on opposite sides.

I am haunted by these images,

by the outstretched hands, 

the crumbled humanity that

surrounds us all.

I am paralyzed by my brain.

By the thinking-too-much-

syndrome.

Will they use this money for food? 

For drugs?

Are they truly poor?

Is this just a front for greed?

For laziness?

I hate that I dare to think these things.

How dare I assume anything about 

anyone. else.

We all have our own issues, 

our own challenges,

our own demons.  

Here I stand, again.

Plagued with guilt, again,

Because I turned a blind eye.

I looked away.  

Walked away.

I kept my bleary eyes up, again, 

when Need sat quietly below.