Resources? Human?

A body is lying in the parking,

not angled nicely like the cars

but sprawled, taking up room.

I slip by into the coffee shop,

order a cappuccino

and peer through the lace curtain.

Is he drunk, or sick, or dead?

Another time, another place;

traffic lights are red.

A hand reaches to the window,

pleading.

I smile and press the button.

The window closes as I shake my head

and say I’m sorry.

A cloud crosses my mind,

Are these resources?

Am I human?

Donald Thomas
November 2003