Poem: Mind Drift

I see myself in the constancy of other lives.

Mind Drift His mind drifts to the homeless man in Chicago,     killed as he slept in his pile of rags,     with a hunting arrow, steel shafted, razor tipped For curiosity perhaps, or mindless perversity,     or for the hell of it,     just to watch him die The a little boy in Yellowstone, four or five years old,     pushed eagerly toward a bull elk by his father,     as though the wild thing were Disney-tame Innocently stupid, a thoughtless thing,     Putting a trusting child     in harm’s way And his mind drifts to the lives that he has touched,     wonders if they felt the same cold shaft     and the shove of his hand against their back

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.