The Beggar
He leaves his soul on the pavement,
To be greeted only by the soles of shoes passing by,
Never stopping.
They are equally decrepit,
Equally as likely to be discarded when their purpose is no longer obvious.
He works his fingers to the bone,
To feed only on bones tossed away by licked fingers,
Never sharing.
They are equally decayed,
Equally as likely to be discarded when their purpose is no longer obvious.
***
"Help Me",
He says, in a voice hoarse with thirst,
with a tongue thick with pleads and regret.
"Sorry,"
I say, in a voice damp with machine coffee,
through teeth caked with take away food and regret.
I reach to the depths of my heart,
In search of something that might fill the depths of his bowels,
For something of sense beyond cents and rands.
I reach to the seams of my pockets,
In search of something that might alter the seams of his existence,
For something of sense beyond cents and rands.
I reach to the limits of me,
In search of something that might lift the limits of him,
For something of sense beyond cents and rands.
I cannot.
I cannot.
For this,
I am truly sorry
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