A Classic Case
The following’s perhaps less a tale and more of a ramble,
actually,
And it containing the usual fictional characters, obviously.
It’s purpose being to make a notable point, but in a tangible way,
Each reader learning from the merits of such an exercise, or so I pray.
Mike was on his way home, the weather fine and warm, albeit a bit breezy,
His pace in keeping with his fifty odd years, though he still fit, well and healthy.
He seemingly the only one about until he turned the corner of the street,
Where an attractive looking woman in her early thirties he chanced to meet.
Yes,
Life’s a funny thing, we never knowing what’s ’round the corner, excuse the pun,
For just when we think we’ve got it all together, some dark cloud can block the sun.
And no one immune, misfortune both self-inflicted and random, sad to say,
And why we should mind if our nose is in the air, lest a tumble come our way.
Jean was leaning against a fence, had taken a fall and was nursing a bruise,
She needing assistance to make it home, someone’s arm or vehicle, but whose?
And there came Mike, good natured, friendly and reliable, and happy to aid,
Her request immediately responded to, and thus his walk home delayed.
And Mike not unaware of her physical appeal, her generous display,
Such tempting to any man, and Mike married, though he not one who would dismay.
But who would turn down such a request, both her hands holding onto his arm, and,
They walking slowly, their bodies touching, they much like a couple hand in hand.
It took a few blocks, they chatting as one would expect, and she feeling at ease,
Her bruised leg paining though, her brunette head meeting his shoulder when pain would seize.
And Mike responding with due sympathy, she so grateful that he had appeared,
And midst their effort and conversation, neither aware of those eyes that stared.
As they neared her place, she asked Mike if he’d see her to the door, and who wouldn’t?
It surely hardly a case where someone would piously say that one shouldn’t.
And so he obliged, she pleading he let her repay his kindness with a drink,
The situation innocent and genuine, not as some would choose to think.
But plenty of fodder, that sun streaming into the house being far too bright,
And hence Jean partly pulling curtains facing the road, a random car in sight.
Mike in one chair, Jean in another, nothing but conversation going down,
Jean rubbing her aching muscle — and in the car outside, someone with a frown.
After twenty minutes or so, he reappeared at the door about to leave,
And Jean giving him a hug of gratitude, her hand lingering on his sleeve.
Mike waved as he turned from the driveway, he back on the street again, heading home,
And still unaware of those staring eyes that judgmentally had sought to roam.
Yes, the time, place and house all noted, and every other small detail too,
Their observer now stabbing at a cell phone, and things about to go askew.
“Hi. It’s Patricia here…Yea, I’m great thanks…Hey, you won’t believe what I’ve just seen,
Mike and some woman walking down Breach Street all lovey-dovey-like, and I mean,
Hard out, she dressed like a hussy and leaning on him…Yea, Mike…they bold as brass,
And then they went into her house, he there quite a while…What were they doing? Pass.
Though one can imagine, she hugging him as he left, her hands all over him,
It quite a surprise, to be honest, because I didn’t think Mike was that dim,
But there you go, and she half his age, you know.
Sorry, what’s that?...No, I wasn’t mistaken, it clear for all to see, truly,
I sitting there watching from my car, had just come out from visiting Aunty.
His poor wife. Someone should tell her. He clearly not worried about her knowing.
He only living a block away from his floosy, and toing and froing,
A late midlife crisis, huh, not that he’s any excuse, his wife a sweetie,
And thus there no reason for straying, but that’s men for you, unfaithful and lusty.
And his floosy happy to oblige, she scantily dressed, even scruffy!
Scuff marks on her skirt, her hair ruffed up, and she clinging like a limpet, truly.”
And I leaving this imaginary tale here, ’cause it would only get worse,
It a classic case of judging by appearances, such nothing but a curse.
Observers not giving folk the benefit of the doubt, nor approaching them
(Like they should), and why judging by appearances we should always condemn.
After all, how many lives are marred or ruined by flawed interpretations,
Those callous, thoughtless reports that amount to lies, or gross exaggerations?
For some things can look really bad when they’re not, and why one shouldn’t act too quick,
Or at all — though where one should, there’s a time and a place that one’s better to pick.
As for Jean — well, her attire had more to do with her being in a hurry,
A call from someone else also in need of urgent help, and hence Jean’s scurry.
She not paying much attention to her clothing, hindsight being a fine thing,
And her fall catching her out, and such being the signal for evil to spring.
Though we should be careful to avoid what can be misconstrued (those stumbling blocks),
Too many are quick to jump to conclusions, hence those unfair tales, lies and knocks.
And mud sticking, hence those gossipers with blood on their hands come more injury,
And oh, we having erred ourselves, so let’s mind when something concerning we see.
Perhaps you might ask: Could this story have a better end? Well, I guess it could,
But only if Mike were to take the course of action that sensible men would.
They telling their wife all about it on arriving home, every detail,
And thus their wife prepared should the phone ring and someone share a different tale,
One no doubt making its cruel way 'round town, or along the grapevine, "Hi there Gail..."
I guess Mike could've left Jean there and fetched his car, fetched his wife too, but you know,
There are other considerations, she standing helpless there, and who might show?
Not all like Mike, and initially no one in sight, and he without his phone,
Caught on the hop, and as the Good Word says: “Let those who’re sinless cast the first stone.”
Oops, where’s everyone gone? Yes, for isn’t that the truth, no one perfect,
And oh, how Patricia would protest if all her doings one sought to inspect.
And where was the need for her to linger, or was watching too hard to resist?
Trouble always more than happy to deliver where such prying eyes persist.
By Lance Landall
