I prefer to wander,
not stay confined
when science says
it’s OK to venture.
But then I stumble
finding a man, half-dead,
ensconced in a rusted truck,
his fingers curled, necrotic,
his face contorted from coughs.
I stand, peering,
deaf to the honks and curses
of those who fight
for his parking space.
He’s still.
His doors are locked.
Far away, a red-blue light shines,
a promise of help
from the other side.
