Old man and I wheel the chair

I'll look and feel stupid but act different than other people. Human beings, being that we are on earth, are all one and the same." Nothing makes any sense anymore. Am I being polite?  Being stupid is better than being impolite to old people, one legged people, sick people, rich people, fat, ugly and dumb people. I'd rather be fun and unliked than be impolite to people.  Desperate people don't mind if you are unliked, especially if you believe their desperation. I kinda need to help a wheelchair guy with an old hat and a bad knee, a mustach and wood cane. Don't make me.  I'll do it.  Stop me, and I open the door for him, and lead him outside. Watch as invisible tears fall into my breaking heart. Some I'll cry later.  Somebody wants to see you cry.  Maybe not the old man, maybe not. Maybe he is older and wiser and has overlooked your sadness with a smile. Tears would be trouble.  Do I need pity? Do I gain from that? The old man fathoms.  But a smile in the wind and twirl of the head to catch a look as the sun poors down from this old man's face might be what you're waiting for. When he get's home, he moves slowely, cane in one hand, knee in the other; awakens from my genorosity and with a sudden flow of emotion, I begin to cry along with him.  Side by side, miles down the road, our smile takes flight like a river down a mountain.  I was real jack ass to him, though, still.  I was scared at the old mans hat.  His silver mustach and bleeding desperate heart.  I smoke, desperate as he, and will only one day feel the consequences.  I will give the man the door, and watch myself ride the wheel chair down the street.

         Why is it so much better to be him than it is to be me? Why is it so much better to be me than it is to be him? The potatoe chips in the back compartment, being eatin by the road as they waggle in the wheelchair, are to be eatin.  I take the bus on Parkway Ave. and enjoy it.  My legs still cramp and ache with tendor seasoning but rest assured I'm done.  And I am able to walk again.  Sunday afternoon, I asked the paper what I should do. Internet seemlessly taking the advantage from my hand driven newspaper. My wrists would cramp and my body calls for the coffee proof, non electrical informational database right on the kitchen table where I have meals.