I have a route I take home
That takes me through the grim streets of town.
And in one forgotten alley where the poor roam,
Lives the beggar.
A decrepit man with eyes like an abyss,
That have seen more woe than a million strong men.
And his face is foul and reeks of piss,
So I avoid him and his plea for some money
His arms, like thin twigs, struggle to raise a can;
His voice trembles as if hardly used.
He says, “Please help an unfortunate man.”
But I ignore him and walk on.
Week after week, as I walk to my house
He asks me for something: a mere scrap of food.
His voice becomes faint, down to the squeak of a mouse
Until he stays still and no longer asks.
One fortunate day when I get my raise,
I run down the alley, wind whistling in my ears
As I reach the slumped beggar, in the moment crazed
Offer him some money, but he is still.
I pat his arm, but he will not wake;
His half open eyes look past me.
As I realize the truth my body begins to shake,
Then I put all my money into his cold hand.