Every day or night
I encounter three or four
homeless persons in the street,
asking me for a quarter or more.
My heart aches, sinks,
knowing it has gotten
used to them, and passes
ignoring their usual
demand for changes,
sorry, I’ve got no changes.
My mind, however,
has no problem judging them
without even offering one cent;
I pay for their addictions?
I only see them buy
cigarettes, cans of beers,
and desperately wanting more of these,
not even a pizza!
And my heart complains,
to unconditional giving?!
My mind argues,
I can’t give changes
to every homeless person
I meet in the street everyday;
I can’t afford,
and I only cary a debit card anyway;
in this hell-like city for the 99 per cent,
I’m not the only one who runs away from their eyes
or who harshly judges their lives;
everyone does it,
you must accept that dear heart;
let the government worry about it—
you’ve already paid your taxes!
Hates the indifference.
Poverty stinks, especially
when you encounter it in this
“land of plenty;” often cut out
from Hollywood’s super script,
you see it naked in the street.
Poverty is oppressive,
just as a shameful wealth gap is depressive.
Such is life, a bittersweet cliche,
full of joy and disgust.
“Got any quarters?”
Let’s just answer yes or no,
without judging the homeless
because we don’t know
what we will face soon or later in our lives.