Stop. Look at me.

September 26, 2007
Stop. Look at me.
Don’t pretend that you can’t see me here on this damp ground.
That I don’t have an empty cup in my hand.
That my eyes betray hunger beyond any hunger you have ever experienced.
Stop. Look at me.
Don’t ignore my tattered clothes, my matted hair, my unbearable stench.
Don’t overlook my shopping bags of meager possessions.
Don’t forget me the moment you walk away.
Stop. Look at me.
Don’t we look to same?
Our ears, our mouths, our eyes, our blood?
We are brothers.
Brothers of the human race.
Will you pass your broken brother without reaching out a helping hand?
Stop. Look at me!
I’m alone.
I’m suffering.
I am dying.
Thanks to you, my brother, my sister.
You could have been my angels.
The moment you passed me, I was condemned.
Stop. Don’t look at me…
I’m gone now.
I’ve left nothing but my clothes, my body, my shopping bags, my empty, empty cup.
I never received a helping hand.
My angels never came.
Now, I watch the other broken brothers and sisters and see myself in them.
A man drops a fifty in a broken sister’s cup.
A girl drapes a blanket over a brother’s shoulders.
A woman fills a bowl of free soup, and another, and another.
An angel secretly resides in them all.
Look; there is still hope.

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