Envisioning Pain

It was an early winter morning
and the urban humdrum was not yet abuzz
with human invasion
The dim lit alley was nearly empty and very cold.
He walked on casually until he saw her.
She looked about twenty five years old,
wore torn clothes, and a pained look in her tired eyes;
a looked beautiful
and a spitting image of misery.
She did not flinch at his gaze,
and deftly balanced the tattered robe,
on her frail shoulders;
head held proud and high.
The shadowy lights added to her piteous beauty
He took this shortcut to work each day,
but he had never seen her before
Without realizing it, he moved towards her.
In what he later defined as a moment of madness,
he extended his arm to readjust her stubborn drape.
Instantly he heard the janitor’s angry voice
soaring above the pungent aroma of cleaning phenyl;
the voice that he had heard before,
and never heeded yelled,
“You are not allowed to touch the paintings!”