How people treat a rescuer during chaos

The Lone Swimmer Walks In

The bell above the door rings thin,
A sound that cuts through stale air within.
Twelve pairs of eyes glance, then fall,
A room once bustling, now silent, small.

He steps inside, his boots mud-streaked,
Uniform rumpled, his strength grown weak.
The red in his eyes, like blood-stained glass,
A testament to the days that passed.

The shelves are full, yet he feels the lack,
The weight of stares on his bent-back track.
A sea of people, yet he’s alone,
An island of duty, carved in stone.

The coffee pot hums; the scent wafts strong,
But the quiet here feels all wrong.
No thanks, no words, just guilty glances,
As if his presence halts their chances.

A pack of smokes, the cheapest kind,
Shaking hands, a fractured mind.
The clerk waves off his money owed,
“Just take it, man,” a debt bestowed.

But he slams down a twenty, the sound like thunder,
Anger sparking from unspoken plunder.
“I’m not a ghost, I’m not a saint,
I bleed, I break, I feel restraint.”

They don’t meet his eyes, don’t share his pain,
Their shame leaks out like a muted rain.
To them, he’s a shadow, a myth, a tale,
A figure in uniform, worn and frail.

He grabs his coffee, black and bitter,
The warmth in his hand feels cold and thinner.
Through the crowd, he moves like wind through reeds,
A man forgotten in a world that needs.

Loneliness wraps him like a cloak,
Invisible bonds that leave him choked.
The bell rings again as he steps outside,
The world moves on; he cannot hide.

A cigarette lights, the smoke curls thin,
A moment’s solace for chaos within.
In a sea of faces, he drifts apart,
Carrying silence, a heavy heart.