Viewed as the lower class, blue collar, crass,
bashful, with a bite of sass,
the lonely donkey—the jackass.
An outcast, the grunt,
the unchosen, taking the brunt,
of mankind’s burden, saddle and pack,
strewn across his bowed but sturdy back.
He carries on, circling for many a mile,
stubborn, refusing to endure a smile,
dark shadows, mascara’s permanent smear,
hide saddened eyes tattooed with a single tear.
Not longing, nor bitter in the least,
behind the downward gaze lies a simple beast,
yet something in his stare made me pause,
the imperceptible movement toward a cause,
though seemingly not in need for much,
he appeared to want connection—a tender touch.