Don’t Walk on By

She sits where the concrete cracks,
a coat too thin for winter wind,
breath clouding in the early gray
as the city hurries around her
like water around a stone.

Illness folds her days in half,
no wages left to earn,
no doctor she can reach.
She watches the blur of passing lives—
not bitter, just aching to be seen.

“Don’t walk on by,” she murmurs,
as footsteps rush and fade.
“I don’t want coins,
I want to feel human again—
to know I am not invisible.”

She has found water, bread,
a place to rest her head,
yet nothing fills the hollow
where dignity once lived,
before sickness took her strength.

“Don’t walk on by,” she repeats,
as another gaze slides past.
One pause, one word shared kindly,
one moment of simple regard—
might be the rung she climbs to daylight.

So if you see her, or another like her,
let compassion slow your stride.
Offer the warmth of recognition:
“I see you.”
Don’t walk on by.