The Man Who Didn’t Care

The Man Who Didn’t Care

He passed the church with shoulders square,

ignored the hymns that filled the air,

walked by the graves without a stare,

the man who didn’t care.

He heard of floods, of strikes, of war,

shut the paper, locked the door,

kept his boots beneath the stair,

the man who didn’t care.

The children joked, “He’s made of brass,”

never waved when they would pass,

he sat like stone in his wooden chair,

the man who didn’t care.

But once a boy fell near his gate,

skinned his palms, got up too late.

The man looked on, a vacant glare,

the man who didn’t care.

No gesture came, no shift of weight,

he watched, then turned, and closed the gate.

The boy looked sad, he said you’re bad,

the man said look, I just don’t care.