Driving Blindfolded

Driving Blindfolded

We watch her,

With her round belly full, ripe,

Drawing in smoke

To satisfy her urge.

The hyper-informed of us

Throw glances sharp as stone,

To rescue, to cut out

The infant hiding in its nicotine tomb

While its sisters

Cling to their mother's tree trunk thighs

Their cries begging for something -

Snot, like walrus tusks,

Ropes from their noses.

She pauses,

Wipes their mess

With her soiled sleeve.

She lifts them, roughly

One at a time

And crams them into the shopping cart.

"Shut up," she tells them

"There ain't no money for toys."

They are too young for sin.

Too young to climb

Into the back seat of a dirty car

To sweat and pant and

Receive a seed

Planted carelessly and

Without thought

That will grow into a large

Round bump, waiting to be born

Into poverty and fear,

Where school will be a chore, a dread.

And this is where Free Will

Clashes with the God of consequences.

There is no test to take, no license, no permit

No training required

For this the most impossible of jobs - parenting.

Better we should all drive blindfolded,

Than to bring young into the world

To be mistreated.

The casualties would be about the same.

Still, we watch her.

Silently, self-righteously, we watch her.

Who among us would approach her,

Gain her trust, reproach her,

Teach her to do better?

For three little souls

Will grow up to wallow in 

The footsteps set before them,

Repeating the pattern over and over again.

Who will take her on?

Her?  With all her hurts and troubles?

Surely someone else is responsible, more qualified -

What about the church?

Certainly taking on a project this big

Would swamp our boats.  We've got families

Of our own to raise.  And we've all made mistakes, too.

Who are we to cast the first stone?

The two little sisters sitting in the shopping cart

Are quite for a while,

Swallowing Pepsi from sippy cups,

Content to be warm inside the store,

Their noses somewhat clean.

It takes a ton of strength to turn away

From faces smudged with neglect -

To continue shopping, while erasing images

Of those eyes filled with questions.

Those eyes that follow my conscience

All the way home.

"Did you see me and choose to do nothing to help me?"

This is where Free Will

Meets the God of consequences.

I write a donation check to feed the poor,

Ashamed I don't do more.