Pussy Willows

Every now and then, as if to find me by happenstance,
I come across a woman with an abject countenance.
Gripped tightly in her hand is a bundle of wiry willows,
Her aurora void of hope, her face sunken and hollow.
Desperation and shame breed an attempt to elicit pity,
Winning her the label of the vilest in this city.
I turn a blind eye, I shoo her carelessly out the door,
Ignoring the trace of humanity that she so humbly wore.
She is the face of a nation, she represents the debased,
A common, dire circumstance that so many of us now face.
For though she solicits currency, sympathy is what she desires,
Somberly smothered long ago was her internal fire.
Emphasizing her atrocities only prompts cruel judgement,
Maybe the next time that I see her, I’ll extinguish this concrete contempt.

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