When She Trudges

into your church, your bar, your school or favorite café

pushing a metal cart with junk exploding, greasy hair

and ancient odor, a stink that shocks your upturned nose,

will you gaze into her crusted eyes, see yourself

reflected there and think, I too am hungry,

confused, alone?

Or will you thank your stars and paltry god above

for healthy kids with new haircuts, your job, your

car, 401-k and heated well-stocked home,

as you falsely buy what you’ve sold yourself—

that I'm not her, then numbly turn away?