73rd Street Grandma

A third of a man, existing only from the ribs up, pulls himself 
through the subway car on a skateboard, 
Begging.

Every time they approach me, my heart begins to race.
I don not want to see.
I do not want to hear.
I turn my walkman up loud and try not to look.

A black woman with grey hair and no underpants 
bathes her cracked, swollen feet in Union Square.
She pours from a filthy gallon of water.
A bettered tin cup stares up at me from the pavement beside her.

I walk to my friend’s house.

An old Italian woman, not unlike my grandmother 
sits on a bench on E. 73rd Street.
She has no shoes. 
A pin with 2 rhinestones missing adorns her filthy dress. 
A kerchief covers her head.

I begin to feel sick.

“Can you help me? I’m hungry. My welfare has run out.”
“I do not want to beg, I need money for my baby.” 
“I have just been released from Beth Israel Hospital
for the sixth time in the last 18 months...”

I need you.
I need your help.
Please. Help me!

Every day I am assaulted.
My heart screams for these people.

I cannot help them all.

There is so much deceit.
I do not want to be made a fool..
They are not my responsibility.
I can barely make ends meet.

Yet, everytime I pass them
On the street
Or on the train
And do not help,
I feel a small part of my own soul die.

How can I turn away?
How can I look?