i’m so tired, weary of all this beggaring.
that might as well be buggering.
i’ve spent too much of my time
bending over or on supplicant knee.
the signs that i’ve made, scrawled on
scraps of cardboard, nubs of pencil
‘anything please, i’m hungry,’ my
toque upside down on concrete.
on concrete i sit, eyes only on my
withering, distant, dismissed hands.
sometimes if i have a few coins i’ll
drop them in my toque.
no one likes to be the first.
i only look up when i hear some
coins gagged on, but dropped, jangle
‘thank you’ i say defeated as they think
i should be. or shouldn’t be.
i’ve read, i read most every day, some
newspapers are free and the loose ink
matches the dirt i can’t wash from my hands.
i’ve gaze on this motion of people against their
own injustice, their distinctive above-me anger.
i wonder where do i fit in, is there a place?
i’ve seen my friends turned away, cast out,
turned to salt, to less than the famed 1 percent.
shattered from a would be eden of righteousness.
i have no place; have no rights, no sights.
i know when people look at me, hoping
for a couple of dollars for macdonald’s
hamburger, they see failure, see no pride.
they see a drunk or junkie, anything in my hat
i’ll convert to cheap alcohol or a needle.
all i want to do is eat.
all i want is you to see me.