(by Daniel R. Jones)
He wasn’t bleeding by the side of the road
to Jericho, or ransacked
by a group of marauders
or bruised
or naked
or left for dead.
He just needed a ride home from work.
He didn’t bother asking.
He’d already asked a couple times this week.
His eyes did the asking:
“I know you’re a Samaritan,
but will you be good?”
But my last cup of coffee and my Aleve
were wearing off in tandem,
and my wife and son were seated, already,
around some quickly-cooling Stroganoff.
Father,
brother,
forgive me.
Bez&Co 
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