poem

You see an old man in the parking lot, losing control of his cart, and you’re right there, and your hand instinctively reaches out and stops the cart from rolling, and you pause, just long enough to show safety with your body, and say:

“it’s fine,”

and move on.

And then, a second later, you are standing across from a young woman screaming at her wailing child:

“chill tf out!”

And your body is frozen, except for the heart that pumps as if it is trying to put out a fire. Which it is.

And as you bear witness, you wish that it was this cart your hand could instinctively reach out and stop from rolling.