under the overpass

it’s easy to look past them
with feigned oblivion
as they huddle
in the shade
under the scant protection
of tarps and plastic bags
covering over what’s left
of their possessions.

it’s easy to ignore
the woman washing her hair
beside the drainage ditch
collecting up the remains
of a midnight rain
and still doing her best
to look presentable
as we drive by on our way

for tacos or meetings
or to shoot the breeze
in a roadside cafe
soaking up the latest gossip
and chewing over grand plans
of our own design
while celebrating the magnanimity
of our naked humanity.

we talk of ascension
as if nirvana is self-assured
and our de facto reward
but what will really become
of those huddled masses
who never seemed able to catch
a break — and for us
who looked idly on?