Compassion

I was sitting on a bench on Boston Common
that day the old whore came down for the free food
and sat there too. She farted loudly
and we both pretended not to notice
how screwed up she was

Her black hair was stringy
long deep creases ran down
her face like the River Lethe
of her own personal hell

"I'm 37 today," she barked
in a hideous crack broken voice.

I smiled, but not enough to prove
I cared.

She looked 60.

"Happy Birthday," I said.

She tried to laugh, but only a series
of painful wheezing coughs and bites
at dirty crisp autumn air followed.

"I'd do you
for a cup of coffee."

I looked at her,
and welled up with tears

as I went back to work.