pressing on

you notice
his broken teeth
first.
then the way one eye
won't follow.
he was a child
once.
held in a mother's
arms, sung to
with a sweet whispered
lullaby.
once he was without
this coat
of dust
and soil.
the hatchet lines
of weather
upon his face.
how can you not
put something in his
hand
when passing by.
and yet
you press on.