slack and slightly open

There is a bald man shuffling down the sidewalk,
his mouth slack and slightly open,
his body drooping in obedience to gravity
or maybe, I imagine, shame and rejection
and the things you do to cope with those
terrible things.

I drive right by him,
although my hearts stops alongside him
and says we should stay—
and I don’t think it is pity speaking,
that voice of safe condescension;
I think it is
a child who sees another child
and knows what it is like.
I think that is why I cried.