Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
—fifty-two,
doubting every step
—nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
—as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can’t be otherwise
—four, well, maybe five,
able to admire without envy
—eighteen,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
—seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
—twenty-something tops,
harmless singly,
savage in crowds
—half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
—better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
—just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
—forty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
—eighty-three
sooner or later,
worthy of compassion
—ninety-nine,
mortal
—a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.