Guilty

As I stroll through the morning mist,
My feet squelch in blue Crocs,
Adorned with 'jibbitz,' a tribute to my daughter,
And a silent middle finger to the world,
That dares to dictate my steps.

I embrace contrariness down to my bones,
Each squelch, a meditative mantra,
Drawing me inward to a place of reflection.
Here, a thought takes root—
I am guilty.
Guilty of the Good I didn’t do.
No future deeds can cleanse the past.

Guilty of not going that extra mile,
Of not handing the homeless man that lazy $20,
Of letting micro wrongs slip by unchallenged,
Of not giving more to the community
That cradles my existence.

Guilty of withholding deliberate gratitude,
Of not always being kind,
Or generous,
Or empathetic.

And in this reflective dawn,
I vow to be a bloody delight,
To every soul I meet in the days to come.
But can one truly live up to one’s philosophy?
Or is it just another squelch in the muck?