There was an upsetting of the scene,
a sense of turnabout with only
one way being right.
He was a Good Samaritan, extending
the soul of intent, like air itself,
a necessity, but not always appreciated.
He’s determined to write down the deeds
so given, the smiles dispensed, the nods
of hello, but he forgets; no pen or paper.
He sleeps well in a room at the factory,
once his workplace, now the protector
of his night.
Roger Singer 