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Sidewalk Tragedy

Amid the car horns and sidewalk chatter,
an old bum collapsed, gasping for air.
He stretched out a gnarled hand,
eyes burgeoning with fear,
as a man reading a paper stepped around.

I thought to administer mouth to mouth.
My knees locked and I gawked,
trying to recall life-saving maneuvers,
wondering, is there no one else who knows these things,
wasting precious time,
until his eyes rolled back, his hand dropped to his chest
and his whiskey-blood stopped flowing forever.

For days I told everyone about the tragedy,
how disconcerting it was to watch
the life ebb out of the bum's dirty face,
to be a helpless spectator in the face of certain death.
I never said how grateful I was
to be spared from having to bend down,
breathe in his body odor
or press my lips to his.

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