It’s impolite to stare.
But who could resist staring
at the pedestrian yanking a jeans leg up?
For the blistering sores do shine,
once illuminated by each passing headlight.
And who could resist
following the faceless shadow as it shifts
back and forth beneath the street lights,
to properly position his infested leg?
Surely, if not for the darkness of the night,
he would be struck with the point of our joint apathy.
But thankfully the pitter-patter of the raindrops
keeps motorists busy with sounds instead of sights.
Or they wouldn’t miss those rosey humps,
harking back to a harrowing time.
Apparently, no plague enters his mind,
only a perception that with his affliction pity will flow,
and repeatedly fill his cup to the brim.
He cannot conceive of the more powerful dread
spreading through each passing head,
nor the scorn blurring the spectacle he presents.
It must’ve slipped like a magical coin beyond the shadow of this mind.