Privilege

By Matthew Parish

Funny, how the ones life pushed about—

The bruised, the late-paid, those who learnt

To swallow what they could not mend—

Turn out the only people who will give.

Not much, perhaps: a bus fare,

A bed for a week, a phone call made

When no one else could face it.

But it costs them, and they know it,

And they do it all the same.

Meanwhile the smooth-faced sorts,

Raised on certainty and tennis courts,

Talk loudly of responsibility.

They think a conscience is a prize

Awarded at some luncheon

To people rather like themselves.

They cannot see why anyone

Should lack the grace to thank them

For what they never did.

And so it goes. The ones

Who learned the world the hard way

Carry kindness like a scar,

A mark you keep because it proves

You once survived. The others drift

From meeting room to manicured lawn,

Bewildered that the world resists

Their effortless importance.

Still, when night falls, it is not

Their lamps that warm the street,

But the quiet glow of those

Who lost more than they could afford

And yet kept something left to spare.