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One.

By
People.
Humans.
Walking, whirring by,
interested in
but one person,
singular:
me, I, myself,
their minds wrapped up
in silky
disdain and thoughts
of where
to,
when will,
and
what if.

All on their
cell phones,
newspapers,
PDAs,
iPods,
jut plain
books.
All are busy.

One person.
Human.
Fallen, on the ground,
her wheelchair askew,
like a
beached
turtle,
she calls weakly for
help,
help to regain balance,
help to sit up,
help for her bruised and damaged
pride,
bruised like a weak old peach,
its skin breaking
at certain points.

People.
Humans.
Social creatures
stream by,
all wrapped up yet
noticing the girl,
each vowing to make a change,
every thinking the other
has their cell to their ear,
calling for help.
Equally nothing.
Always nothing.

Finally,
an old man,
decrepit, rheumatic,
in sure need of glasses,
takes out his
cell phone,
carefully, painstakingly dials,
oh, so diligently,
he who needs help,
helping.

Everyone,
people,
humans,
stream on by,
issue rapid
and curious glances
before forgetting.





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