No One Nowhere

Man in a wheelchair, on his last leg,
  creeps backwards
      pushing, kicking backwards
                            inch by agonizing inch.
Crowds all around, stores all around,
  money all around.
          All he wants is change,
      for someone to walk to him, instead of through him.
Hundreds of people, and all it takes is just one to stop and aid him,
                                                                                speak to him,
                                                                                notice him.
And yet no one does.
                        Why?
Because to do so would invite sorrow into their world.
To acknowledge him would shatter any 
                                                    chance of happiness, of hope.
So day after day, he's here.
  Creeping backwards,
              because he holds a coinless cup in one hand
    and the other is crippled.
One leg struggling to kick, the other absent.
Day after day until one day he's not, like the rest of us,
                                                  then he's not.