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The blind man walks so quietly,
his cane-tip taps beats in my breast.
I so desire to have his disease
that I would not have to see
his over-cautious weary steps
as his walking stick hunts the curb.

Sunglass eyes replace his blank stare.
His unmoving head brings me disquiet.
My grimace creeps from sickened sympathy
as his searching foot meets flaccid air.
It"s painful to stifle my wretched smile"s defiance.
How I burn to steal his graceful apathy.

So the sidewalk cracks, but not his bone.
The cane escapes for buzzing flight.
Helicopter bee spears a spinning flower.
The cyclist loses his balance,
a bouquet of orchids, and a brand new kite.
Keeping still has never been so taxing.

I am cemented to the stoic street
with lips pinched shut and fists clenched firmly.
The men both groan and drag upright
while my gray matter plays the sight on repeat.
I decide that I watched the blind man without regret
be it the last laugh I ever get.