Conditions

One day,
I saw a crackhead scoop up dirty street water
And throw it at a woman already wet from the rain
The woman had a basket on her head
And a colorful dress that hugged wide hips
And spilled to her feet
She was grace
And walked through the brown water as such.

A monk in a monastery
Told me things arise when the conditions are there

I wonder what was in the crackhead’s heart
What intrusive thought burst into her head?
What sentiment was felt
As the water hit the woman?
Did it gratify her ego?
Did she feel bad?
How about when the woman
Walked by as if she was thin air?
Was there anger?
Back then,
I didn’t ponder these questions
I only watched from the bus stop
In disgust

But what was in my heart
To feel that way
Rain clouds covered the sun
The bus was late
And the pretty drum of rain on earth
Was drowned out by yelling and shouting
I was depressed
And living unconscious

So I felt disgusted
And it put a condition in me
To sit here and write a poem
Where I call a random woman
A crackhead
Because my mind made her appear as such
And another woman grace
Because my mind made her appear as such

Dirty street water touched that woman’s brow
And it made mine furrow
As I felt the anger for her
But she walked away with grace
And I stepped on the bus perturbed
Because a crackhead threw dirty street water on me
And that’s the condition of ego within me
Relating to a stranger in empathy
And another in anger

But appearances are deceiving
And my brother taught me to
Never get caught in a moment
But I haven’t yet built the conditions of peace
In myself
To be able to look at another
Without sticking their head in rain clouds or the sun
And so I’m caught throwing dirty street water
At people I don’t know