How odd this ragged stranger seems

who jarred me from my frozen stare,

at dust and dreams and other things

for which I spend my time and care.

 

No other man hath paid him mind,

no nod, nor smile, nor kindness shown.

No, none at all hath lent him time.

No good man opened up his home.

 

So what is lost if I like they

wave off a hand and turn back in,

and quickly block the guilt away

that comes from having been like them?

 

For not but dread his presence seems.

His very sight a cause to stare,

at rags and seams and other things,

for which he has no means to care.

 

Thus, I suppose I’ll lend a dime.

Oh, what the hell! “Here take it all.”

How little it be in the end…

when from our eyes the scales do fall.