A Scratcher

Beside me on this train bench,
a man calmly tears
his face to pieces
and I imagine
within he is roaring
with itch. The greed
of his fingers
and the needs of 10,000
brief reliefs are eroding
what we recognize
as one of us.
I try to look
away, let him be
placed on that invisible island
of others.

With so much drought,
the boats of compassion no longer float;
should I hope for suffering
to restore some rain of empathy?


by jerry gordon
6.13.10