The Trophy of Pity

Like any other day
the robust sturdy booth-phone
could not conceive kind from cruel,
stayed silent to the old lady's requests.
That day he picked a cell phone from
the tender trophy of pity,
Gave it to the old lady. In return,
She picked a dollar from
the generous depths of kindness,
offered it to him.

On another day, when lucky he got
free treasures of smiles and ebullience
to top a worried load of confused queries
that lost tourists carry along with water bottles,
He foolishly gave back help muddled with
the wrong form of pity.

Pity for the free man somewhere
must be a celebration.
The trophy of pity,
he makes heavy on his silly days.
He is striving to feel worthy,
join the free men.

On such silly days his shackles invent muddle
giving humble pity (accepting simple inadequacy).
Cling to bizarre strengths that are not there.
He imagines the free man keeps it uncomplicated,
and through this straight path of dignity,
to simple free caring pays homage.

On some lucid days,
His same shackles have shown him the song
that keeps playing on all days,
off his human bundle and many others
bumbling along cutely in indescribable motion,
reminding of smokes of tobaccos and incense,
few solid flashes and all dissolving wisp.