Fallen

The old man, then a stranger to me,
lay helpless inside.
Open it, he'd said, when I'd knocked on his front door but once.
Afraid of breaking his brittle arms, I dug my hands,
those of a twenty-something in his prime,
into his ancient armpits,
lifted him from behind, propped him against a wall next to photographs
of his wife who, he said, had died years ago
and his kids who, he added,
had become adults and were busy working
while their father was recovering from a broken hip.
Minutes passed before I remembered to tell him
the garbage man had urged me, somebody needs to check on that guy,
found him on the curb by his bin, left him in his kitchen, didn't want
him to think I was going for his money or something.
Minutes passed as I tried to feel guilty
for feeling proud of my goodwill, till I realized
there's no escaping self-congratulation,
there's no soul quite like this man's,
no soul unlike this man's,
and few gifts greater than his saying,
was a rough day when I'd fallen, till you came.

Nathanael Tagg has received his BA and MA in English. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska, where he teaches writing courses at the University of Nebraska at Omaha and Metropolitan Community College. When he isn't teaching or spending time with loved ones, he's often enjoying the process of understanding experience—and transforming it, perhaps—through poetry.