Why is that guy
looking at me?
All battered
adorned with ragged knee.

Is it my watch
or hat
or car
he wants?
I shuffle off
to the side
my pale face gaunt.

Quick the race to judgment comes
a faint, vestigial, moment.
Aren’t they all just vagrant bums
crooked, vapid torment?

In the corner of my vision
my perceptive deceit comes clear.
It’s a matter of precision
we’re all conditioned to fear.

For in his hand there lies
a twisted scrap of leather.
His is nature’s booby prize
A victim of the weather.

The climate that shows us
what colour we should be.
The winds to which we acquiesce
our bitter jubilee.

So much of who we are
we think that we’re unique,
But we’re governed by where we are
in the enlightenment we seek.

When you’re traveling
through the minefields
of well-intentioned strife.
Do well to remember
an envelope of circumstance
encloses every human life.

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