Crash

I've debated with myself a while about whether to post this poem or not. I don't write much poetry, because I often feel I don't understand all the rules of meter, etc. I could never remember the difference between blank verse and free verse when I was in school. I just don't feel as comfortable working with poetry as I do with prose.
I suppose, though, that writing isn't about being comfortable. Maybe writing about what makes us uncomfortable really brings out what is important. I'm not sure.
I wrote this poem over two years ago. That woman's face still haunts me. I wonder about her and others like her. I wonder what her day was like, her yesterday and tomorrow. I wonder if there was something I could have done....

Crash
In line at the supermarket
One lane over,
She leans with her elbow on the cart, knuckles on her hip.
She stands there nonchalant,
with a shattered face.

She is old and tiny.
Straggles of gray hair
Held back from her face with a pink ribbon.
Of course, she’s wearing long sleeves and jeans,
Even in the heart of summer.

Her eyes bug out,
but only because her cheekbones are crushed.
A nose without a bridge,
just a little, fleshy bump in the middle of her face.
A face blunted, edgeless,
leveled by cudgel fists.

Ah, yes. He’s there.
The big, he-man.
He’s old too, but tall and broad-shouldered.
Pink scalp shines through the gray stubble of his crew cut.
His hands, those hands, grip the
Shopping cart handle.

Oh, I hope they hurt him.
In winter. During rainstorms.
All the time.
I hope the pain is throbbing, deep-aching,
fire needles in the joints.
A small, daily payment
For the beatings.

When he turns his head to speak to her
I see her anxious expression as
She looks up at him,
like a child, wary, frightened…
heartbreaking.
A slight rocking back on her heels, not a full step,
but enough to convince me,
her face was no accident.

Shaking, enraged, outraged, I suppress the urge
To rocket canned goods at his head or just
Take him to the floor with a running tackle and
Bash his head into the gray-spotted linoleum in
Front of the magazine racks.
I want to hurt him. I really do.
Imagine what she must want.

And yet, I do nothing,
nothing, nothing,
nothing.