Where Do The Handicapped Go
In the body of the night they find shelter as every man seeks his own good, and life runs its continuously mutating course. The helplessly twisted in body and spirit, scramble for survival alongside the dulled in mind and emotion. Humanity at its lowest ebb, eating the sand off the feet of those in motion, inhaling fumes as the cars of the upwardly mobile, physically and socially, speed past, spewing mud and debris.
Those that are able, raise heads and hands to solicit alms; passively or aggressively, as the hunger pangs dictate. The monumentally crippled lies twisted in the detritus of his survival. He lies, hungry, unaided and ignored. In the sun or the rain, he lies; exposed to the elements in all their glory.
All around them we exist, glorying in the cornucopia of our physical blessings, even for the blissfully unaware. We bemoan our fates. Anxious about the morrow, troubled about the rent, the job, the food, the bills, the clothes, and all the embellishments for which we engage in endless pursuit. We hurry past these people, as every man imagines that his burdens cannot bear to be borne, whilst on the floor besides his trampling feet lies a sub- human whose troubles he cannot even start to imagine.
We expect the Government to do something; to clear the streets, to heal the sick, to make limbs whole, perhaps. Who is the Government? A faceless, nameless being? An omniscient creature capable of seeping like vapor into every nook and cranny, uncovering every unseen and hidden deed? Or a mini god, discovering the thought and intents of a man’s heart?
To the helpless, broken beggar on the street, you are his “government”. You are the one person who can ensure he has a meal that night, or has a dwelling to lay his head. The man without a shoe cries out at his misfortune until he beholds the man without feet. We must not delude ourselves [as we avert our faces and hold our breath], that we are unable to aid these humans at ground level. One step at a time, raise a head.
