Cross-Roads.

                                         Go away you mean-devil
                                         With thy tarmac mind
                                          No place of your level
                                          The secretary pronounces unkind.

                                          The crippled creature turned
                                           Away; wearing a sad pitying face
                                           Her eyes red like pepper that is canned
                                           ooh! she had to pace.

                                            I look her at a distance 
                                            Speeding her  device
                                             Back; with 0 sentence
                                             Her trolley mourning the vice
                                             of humiliation!