THE POOR OLD LADY ON THE CROSSWALK

Busy as a street could ever be Everyone's eyes veiled but me In this busy anthill A poor old lady gave a shrill Struggling on a zebra, a daily drill. As every ant, loaded, hurriedly passed by To the poor lady I gave a wide smile. Met by a worn-out stare I noticed my gesture was to her a scare "Mom, let me help you cross," I said to her. Sensing the genuineness in that smile She handed me her hand, gave a high sigh. Her panting could not just stop As if her poor breath was on the cross Ready to be nailed for crucifixion. On the other side of the road The sun shines again, brighter. Her poor old heart breathes lighter A weight lifted from her tired soul And I, too, feel a little more whole.