You descend a staircase
on the eve of a cold,
rainy, winter's eve
contemplating life and it's ever -
embranching remification,
the basic lonliness of one's heart
a young boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen
years of age,
calls at you "hey mister, got a cigarrete
to spare?"
"this punk should not be smoking so young" is your
immediate, impulsive inner response
and then a smile breaks
through
you give the little punk his ill-needed cigarrete,
lighting it for him as well thinking
"he has time to learn, he
will,
eventually,
learn":
compassion.