Poor Soul
i watch as a bent over woman struggles to cross the street
her right hand shakes as she tries to steady her walking stick
i hear my mom’s voice whispering from heaven
‘there’s a poor soul, where’s her family, the ones who care about her?’
we all look away, pretending we don’t know that we know
we are her family, the ones who care about her . . .
2 thoughts on "Poor Soul"
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I am compelled to think about human charity and the idea that we are all one family from reading your poem. It offers insight into how we view and respond to human suffering. Thank you for your poem.
Ann, thank you for your sweetest gentlest spirit. You are a blessing to this world!