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.



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