I walk on by

He is homeless.
He struggles, by himself,
To muscle a car tire
Into a wheelbarrow—his only possession.
Time and again,
Using varying strategies,
He tries and fails.
I sit at the intersection
Thinking that I could help.
That I should help.
But I drive on by.

He is homeless.
The rain pounds on his
Grey hair and hunched shoulders
He stands in the right lane,
Right thumb halfheartedly up,
Knowing he will not get a ride.
I sit, dry and content,
Thinking that I could help.
That I should help.
But I drive on by.

He is homeless.
He trudges into the restaurant
Just looking for a restroom.
He tries to buy a drink
To be allowed to use their facilities.
They refuse him
And hurry him to the door
For fear of a stench or a scene.
I sit with friends, cup in hand,
Thinking that I could help.
That I should help.
But I let him walk on by.

He is homeless,
With defeat in his eyes
And not a friends
To pass the time.
For I have rejected him,
Betrayed him, crucified him.
All the while, denying my role
Just thinking that I could help.
That I should help.
But I walk on by.