Chasing Horizons

The blind man is standing there, playing his instrument.
Does he not see?
The men accoutered in their sharp, snazzy suits --
Their black asian hair streaked with bronze or blonde
Or red or mahogany or blue,
Slicked back with designer gel to last the entire day --
How, from him, they contrived to turn their gaze away
By looking ahead at the looming passage of the underpass
Or at the flashy ads that interchange behind the glass.
Their chins up high, briskly walking;
Does he not see they could just be pretending?
Or are they really chasing their horizons -- relentlessly pursuing
The wrong dreams, the wrong things?
Oh! But he is blind!

These slit-eyed men in their sharp, snazzy suits;
Do they not see?
There is no need to divert their glances away from him.
For his blank eyes cannot possibly judge or be prejudiced
Against people he cannot possibly see.
If he cannot look into the distance, what horizons can he pursue?
But the hope that some people with empathy -- or a dollar or two --
Would stop and listen to his (sometimes tuneless) tired song.
Is that too much to ask for? Is that wrong?
His chin up high, bravely waiting;
Do they not see, his life is still worth living?
His limited boundaries are not his undoing.
He isn't begging for fancy things.
Or are they also blind?

The blind man has stopped playing his instrument.
His song has ended.
But the men in their sharp, snazzy suits are briskly walking --
Chasing their horizons.