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Sometimes a poem can unfortunately answer another |
in 2005 I wrote this poem Tragedy Within Arms’ Reach He lay there Wearing his trench coat. You could still see The faded snowmen and snowflakes Of the thin red blanket The one he had picked up at a thrift store That he tried hard to cover his body with Each night. He lay there At the foot of a small oak tree Two feet away from the sidewalk Within arms’ reach Of the people that now passed him by. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. People would shake their head As they scurried on. “Get a job” One man uttered In not so soft of a voice. “Try not to stare” One woman warned her children As she hurried them along their way. He just lay there by the sidewalk Ignoring them all Paying them no notice Letting them go about their everyday routine. He lay there at six o’clock As many left their jobs And started their daily trek home “Wasn’t he here this morning?” One man thought As he hurried to catch the bus. “No, it couldn’t be him” He assured himself “These bums all look alike.” He lay there All that evening The next day And the next Tightly wrapped in his thrift store blanket Wearing his dark black trench coat Two feet away from the sidewalk Under a small oak tree He lay there And no one stopped to notice That he had frozen to death Several nights before. He lay there A frozen tragedy And all this time Two feet away from a sidewalk Easily within so many arms’ reach. Such a sad tale You might sigh to yourself. What you must realize What you must force yourself to understand is This is not a simple poem. This was yesterday. This was Paris. I wonder How many other cities Could this have been as well? Ed Roberts 11/29/05 Unfortunately with one of my latest it was answered; here Words, too late for Terry The last thing Terry saw Was the underside of a highway overpass The last thing he heard Was the sound of cars and trucks Driving by His life Like so many Had been filled With wrong turns In and out of jail Occasionally In and out of a job And finally Out of a home Also Like so many He also became a slave A slave of poverty A slave of alcohol And a slave to a system That would rather punish offenders Than offer hope or help At the age of 43 He had lost the vision In one eye And part of his foot To diabetes And in the eyes of most The most important thing Terry had lost Was himself On one cold night in December A night where temperatures would only be measured In the single digits Terry did something he seldom did He sought shelter A warm place to spend the night But from the homeless shelter he went to He was turned away He had failed their alcohol test For them to “care” for him He had to be both Clean and sober Yes The last thing Terry saw Was the underside of a highway overpass And the last thing that he heard Was the sound of cars and trucks As they drove by None of which stopped And only a few blocks away From our State Capitol Building That night Terry froze To death Tonight I write these words Through tear filled eyes And wonder How many more will have to die like this Before we finally open our minds And our hearts And change Ed Roberts 11/20/13 (For Terry Myrks) |