On What Matters

With a cigarette and some water,
you march across the bridge
without a thought,
except for getting there on time.

Thinking no one else is watching,
you are pure and in your world.
But I am writing, and observing
your arms and hands as you walk,
and making assumptions that will not matter,
but I'm making them anyway.

I could be so rude.
Why don't I?
It isn't right.
So what?
It. Isn't. Right.

But somewhere inside,
I'm doing it anyway.
Isn't that the same?