You’re not a mean giver.
Look at you—
sixty-four,
and still muddling through.
The man in the window
you see—
and, might I add,
not so favorably—
is none other than
a crooked dream,
a what-couldn’t-be.
The air’s colder today.
And each day
you get more gray.
Dollars you had—
and gave away—
have left you
without,
and wanting.
What other causes
can you contrive
to make others realize
that the hazards of giving
are mounting?
Your back hurts
from lifting
other people’s things.
It once was worth it—
for the smile
that helping brings.
But now
you have to go to work
in four hours,
with a Tylenol sleepy head,
dragging your consciousness
through swamp—
dream phonemes,
lazy body mechanics—
into an eight-hour shift
on a forklift.
The rent is overdue.
The power bill too.
A woman you met
a month ago
seemed more desperate.
They always do.
But what if
you denied everyone,
and deferred their hope—
and no one ever
called you
a sucker
again?
Can freedom be defined
by someone
who lives within himself—
because he cannot
live
with himself?