juxta position

I asked them
to think
about
others,
to write about
how others
would see
what they have, and
some did,
but others didn’t,
and it was sad,
in a quiet, almost
solemn
way.
Too young
to know differently,
and, perhaps,
that’s the shame,
and the sadness.
“He” looked in the window
and saw what he saw
but they didn’t let
him feel.
She “peered” into the window and I gave a good mark for the verb,
but what
about
what she
thought,
I asked, and she
could not
answer.
They are both
innocent
and
not,
these writers.
They need to know,
they need to see. It’s the
only
hope: Them.
Their generation. It has come to
that
point: empathy,
compassion,
being able to feel
someone’s life
as theirs.
Not completely, for
that is impossible.
But in increments,
in silence, in time.
Of that, we
grow
short.