There was nothing defiant in the thin man
I met along the streets one day.
He was the most heaven-sent of all beings
I’ve ever had cause to meet beneath the sun.
He was sitting in a wheelchair.
All of him was skin and bones, neck to ankle.
Yet there was nothing defiant in the thin man I met
along the streets one day.
He did not rail and complain about his lot, saying,
“How god has done this to me!”
Instead, he merely looked on with a gentle smile,
on all the roads of all the city around him,
and, with his whole being,
praised God for what was given him.
I’ve never met anyone more grateful for life.
I’d given all my money to others along the way,
so I’d none to give him. But he made little of it.
“I cannot eat much anyway,” he said.
“To most food I’m allergic.
I cannot eat what most others certainly can.”
I marveled at how this in him was not defeat.
I said I’d return later, and he just stared at me.
No hatred was in those eyes.
I left the thin man, and went on my way,
saying I’d return when my day was done.
After stirring hours spent on the water,
I forgot to return to the spot where he sat.
Where the thin man is now, I cannot say.
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