“I saw what you did,’ the woman sneered.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck.
I thought of how I’d scratched that inappropriate itch.
I didn’t think anyone saw.
But the woman wasn’t even addressing me,
But a poor little boy that stood—
Head hung down, posture drooped,
Eyes on the gritty ground.
We all do the best we can, Woman.
Are you casting the first stone, now,
When you have been forgiven much?
Where, oh, where is the love?
The upright stand,
Knowing imperfect
Is fine,
Knowing that itches come and go,
And to err
Is truly divine.
-jenn long
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