Onlooker

I see an old man
With a bandaged eye.
I laughed to think
That he endured
A wretched backhand
From his grey-haired wife,
Now so attentive.
He’s fine.
He doesn’t want my pity.
He is no more blind than I.
There is not a soul
Walking on this grass
Who sees half
Of what is in front of him,
Or any more than those
For whom the crosswalk
Speaks aloud.