9602030733
DETROIT FREE PRESS
961103
Sunday, November 03, 1996
METRO FINAL
1E
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1996, Detroit Free Press
APATHY REMAINS, SO MESSAGE IS THE SAME
Note: I was terribly disturbed by a report that showed 30 percent of
Americans would rather shop on Tuesday than vote for president. Four years
ago, I wrote the following poem about apathy. Although I have racked my brain
for a new way to say it, this might be the best way I know how. Please indulge
the repetition of a column that still rings true today on the cusp of the
elections.
I heard a knock upon my door
And opened it to see
All the poor around the world
Looking back at me
In tattered clothes and worn-out shoes
With families to feed,
They held their hands out, hopefully,
Could I address their need?
"Too many," I said, overwhelmed,
And shut the door in dread
For I am just one person,
"There's a way," a small voice said.
NOT a moment passed before
I heard another knock,
And all the hungry, 'round the world
Were out there, to my shock
Their bellies round and bloated
The eyes as blank as chalk
They looked at me as if to speak
But fell, too weak to talk
I shut the door in sorrow,
"There's too many to be fed!"
For I am just one person,
"There's a way," the small voice said.
WHO was this voice, I wondered?
When a knock drew my surprise
Foreign armies 'round my house,
Blocking out the skies
Their weapons spread for miles and miles
Their missiles at the fore
They seemed to stare me in the eye
I quickly shut the door
"There must be some mistake!," I cried
"These armies are misled,
"I have no power over them!"
"You do," this small voice said.
AND as I pondered for a while,
Another knock I heard
This time the door revealed to me
A vision quite absurd
All the nation's ill and sick
Were crowded on my lawn
Wheelchairs, nurses, bandages,
Were stretched from dusk to dawn
"What will you do?," they said as one
"To pay for all these beds?"
"You're asking me?," I told them
"They are," the small voice said.
AND then a knock, a rapping sound
And fire, like a torch,
I looked outside to see a
Nation's crime wave on my porch
It seemed to stretch beyond the night
With chains and knives and guns
Poverty that turned to thieves
the sweetest mothers' sons
"Leave!" I shouted, "Go away!
"Where are the police?"
I slammed the door, then heard that voice:
"You can make it cease."
AND so it went for all the day,
The knocking never ending
And every time a different cause
Too big for comprehending,
And always came this foolish voice,
A sound as clam as spring
Claiming I had power
over everything.
"SHOW YOURSELF!," I hollered now
"For this has gone too far.
"I'm busy, I have work to do,
"I need to wash my car
"These optical illusions
"Are some deceptive game
"Thinking I can change the world
"Is really quite insane."
I waited then for some reply,
But quiet fell once more
Finally, a faint and weakened
Knocking on my door
I opened it to see a child there
Bending at the knee
I gasped for breath and rubbed my eyes
For this child looked like me
HIS face was hung in sadness,
His body thin and lone,
His eyes revealed a hopelessness,
That chilled me to my bone.
I wanted to embrace him, but
He turned and walked away
"You've left your child no future,"
I heard that small voice say.
"The power to create a change "For hungry and for poor,
"Those armies, you ignored them
"Tho' just outside your door
"Because you are one person,
"You gave nothing but your sighs
"The terror of your apathy
"Lies in your children's eyes"
NOW my heart was pounding,
My anger boiled and burned
"Tell me, then!," I hollered
"What fact should I have learned?
"Tell me how that I can save
"A life from such despair
"Tell me where this magic cure
"Lies hidden in the air
"Tell me how a factory man
"A farmer pulling wheat,
"Can make a dent in problems
"Meant for armies, or Wall Street
"Tell me how a simple soul
"Turns living from the dead?"
" And here it came, a single word
''Vote," the small voice said.
THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION MAY DIFFER SLIGHTLY FROM THE PRINTED ARTICLE.
VOTING