Dearth

He squats the entire day, extending his empty cup. Cold sweat oozing from the pores of his slack bristly white face, yet he crouched spiritless, hoping for kindness to tumble. Desire split his dry lips, but he stoops without a murmur, parting the busy shoppers, roaming up and down the Plaza. He makes rhythm with his cup, a somber rhythm that plunges into the ground. People pass by in a rush and ignore his plea. Without warning a weight, falls upon his head, and he collapses to the ground. His weary eyelids stop throbbing, the sweat drys up , and mercy plunges desperately into his cup, but poverty stares. ©2013 Christine Phillips