HOMELESS PLEASE HELP
So reads his sign.
So read so many signs.
So many signs on so many streets.
So many streets with so many eyes
to judge him.
He, the lazy vagabond,
the unsightly blemish
that mars Success's cool complexion.
He, the impious beggar
who dares scrounge for coins.
My coins.
I earn these coins.
Yet, his tired eyes,
bloodshot,
sunken,
pleading,
somehow break my pride.
I nearly reach for a quarter..
But what is this
but a contribution
to a substance addiction?
What is this
but a tiny drop
in a bucket that will never be filled?
It is too late.
The quarter has fallen onto his lap.
I do not look back to see
his dirty fingers grasping my coin,
his small smile of gratitude, or
his personal bucket over-filled with restored hope,
but hurry on.
The quarter
now only fills a check in a box,
satisfying some required daily kindess.
What a good person I am.