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Out of Sight, Out of Mind

He wondered through the salvage yard in search of some old part.
He ventured to the farthest row and there he made his start.
And, passing by a rusted Ford, he heard a muffled sound;
That feeble whine he’d heard before, he stopped and looked around.

‘Was coming from beneath the seat of the Fairlane to his right;
The cry of puppies, newly born; perhaps just overnight.
He thought how sad a thing it was for them to quiver there
Without a home, a proper home, where people truly care.

But who has time to potty-train or money for the vet?
Perhaps, someday, when things look good, we all could get a pet.

A rational man, he thought it out; and, eyes directed up,
He reached his hand beneath the seat and choked an extra pup.
He felt for others, did his deed, his duty now complete;
His service to his fellowman lies still beneath the seat.

In the selfsame town, but a world away from this morbid junkyard scene,
Doctors dress in spotless white with tools they boiled clean.
They reach into the sheltered womb and end a human life;
They do not choke the thing to death, it’s neater with the knife.

And someone else is spared again from shouldering their own;
The doctor earns his daily bread, the fetus lies alone.
By light of day this act appalls, and seems so far from right;
But remorse retreats when crime occurs with victim out of sight.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.



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