a needle on the sidewalk, kicked aside,

waiting for a latex-gloved hand

to reach down, pick it up, bin it

in a hygienic disposal container, 

while the user has moved on, drifting,

rudderlessly, toward the next needle.

how do i know this, i see it played out

every day, even now, almost inured to it,

always wary and despairing of it, almost

saying there but for the grace of god,

not quite, an aversion to losing control

keeps my despair quietly inside, tucked in,

let out only on special occasions, birthdays

and holidays, litterless, nothing to pick up.