Passing Headlights

The small sudan, parked on

the side of the parkway.

Empty and abandoned— slightly damaged

with dents and tree branch scratches.

Headlights pass by— slowing down

observing the cars' shambled disfigurement.

Curious for the passing moment.

The car, quiet like me—

slightly hurt— not enough to

raise any concern.

The seemingly trivial inflicted defacement,

disheveled my body and mind.

People are like passing headlights,

taking notice of my pain.

They ignore my suffering—

A reminder of their luck.

They don’t feel any sympathy—

not slowing because they care.

Slowing to guak at me,

to embrace their good fortune.

They use my surfaced scars,

to heal their own.

My mutilation— their passing time.