Inner Lives
By Bob Christin
That scruffy bearded homeless
man pushing a cart of broken
dreams stares out at the world
in a trance, eyes unseeing,
pointed straight ahead to
protect himself from scorn,
side glances of discomfort.
His feeling locked or missing.
He is independent, a person
fully human in God's image.
When I look at his eyes closed
to my peering in, I see myself,
my scruffy, bearded spiritual
life accepting arrogantly my
cart of fulfilled dreams, my
comforts of every day without
even a nod to my benefactors
who pushed and shoved me
from nothing to the riches
I have enjoyed. My side glances
are rarely focused on the angels
who carried me on their wings
to safe living rooms and libraries
and love. Looking at this man
I scorn not him but my neglect,
my indifference, my aversion
to discomfort. I say not the
arrogant There but for the
grace of God, but more
humbly, Is it I, Lord?
Wow, Bob, this is very powerful.
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The depth of this poem spoke to me. Good job.
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Bob, your perfect final line says it all.
Sharon
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The double vision is so evocative. The pharisee in each of us needs to be checked -- or smacked -- regularly, and your poem, Bob, does that precisely between the eyes. Thanks.
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