walking down valencia, i see
a woman in a wheelchair
we share hellos and i give
her a buck as i wonder
what her story is—she was
just evicted from her home
or maybe her lover beats her
imagining her hunger and
pain i feel compassion for her
and know i’m the lucky one
because i have a dollar to spare
as i leave to walk on, two young
women well dressed and coifed
pass by—and they too must have
a story—maybe one of them has
just broken up with her boyfriend
or the other is having troubles at
work—but i don’t care nor feel
any compassion for them—for as
they go inside a posh eatery
the struggles and strife of
those living on the street
seem not to matter—
since it seems a birthright
of these young women
to have a silver spoon—so
why be bothered by those
without—when a twelve dollar
cocktail awaits.