Blind Side

The light turned green
a white cane ap­peared
in my pe­riph­ery I slammed my foot
and the blind man
backed to the curb.
Did he sense some
sub­tle shift of en­gine sound
an al­tered emis­sion taste on 
the tongue?

I drive wary at dark and I’m wrong when
I say lights blind me, my sight but only
con­fused — a shim­mer of im­ages. 

To not
see. 
Distinguish day from night by
the weather of his skin. A hum­ble
scent. These
words, read aloud 
only for him. 

A cat­er­waul of daily 
epics 
from which 
one voice 
shall rise
in ac­cla­ma­tion. 

Almost hit a blind man. Spent the rest of my drive try­ing to em­pathize with what blind­ness re­ally means, man. Thought I’d give the blind some props and rec­og­nize my own priv­i­lege as a sighted per­son.

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