Spare Coins
Riddled face, weary under clouds quite frail,
night of hope screeches of meal to eat.
A boy cups his hands again for spare change
plucking a tin can on lanes primed for the rich.
Colder than ice of night like soiled paper bag
he approaches a woman of leisure with a smile;
bypassed and judged as nameless face, a plague
while his lips hang on a sigh…coins, coins.
Though disgruntled, the matron feels a hard tug
A shrewd merchant blinded by earthly whims;
hoarding diamonds and favors as life’s treasures
while he, an innocent waif mirrors her empty needs.
For she lives in a mansion filled with poverty
where frozen rooms and silverware feed on hunger,
as soul barren cannot hide the real misery
craving for pauper’s wealth of faith; she is the beggar.
Dr. Ram Mehta's Measure For Measure
by nette onclaud
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