I Am Guilty, I Know

I am guilty,
I know—
I have done it too.

I came upon someone
I could not see beyond the hue.

From my side, unseen, came the words:
“Can I help you bag your things?”
I looked up and met your eyes—
revealing insincerity in disguise.
To me, no surprise.

My life, insignificant, invisible—
of course you could not see inside:
the adventures,
the struggles,
the wars,
the victories,
the fears,
the discoveries,
the losses—
you could not see them.

But I see your hurry.
I assume it’s your struggle,
a story moving toward the future.

Surely I must look as if
my life has seen nothing.
Why should it?
I, too, judged books with homely covers,
missing the trepidness inside:
the happy,
the hurting,
the curious,
the apathetic,
the inventive,
the complacent,
the analytical,
the indifferent,
the exploratory,
the dogmatic—
all spooling through
the reel-to-reel
of times that could, would
blow your mind.

Thank you for reminding me
that vast experience
is invisible to strangers.

I acknowledge ignorance, arrogance,
and the privilege
of holding the story in your mind—
a story I know
has been through hell and back,
or perhaps somewhere else entirely.

Perception is real.
Who am I to judge?

Now, dear—
let me help you.