Futile Poem by Abraham de la Torre

Not quite disembarked
from the FX cab, the woman cried.
A short, shrill, sudden scream.
Her purse was snatched.
The culprit was quicksilver fast;
she ran after nothing.
And fell.
Underneath her ghostly grief
and poor man's garb,
she was heavy with child.
The passengers condoled
and condemned and cautioned
one another aloud.
My feelings overlapped
forbid harm to the womb
forgive my inadequacy
thank God no one blamed her
and wanted so much
to imprecate
it hurt.