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.

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