Through the smudges of reality
They hoist their head high
And scan a hostile environment.
The wooden cane, just an ally,
Money. just a friend in need,
The corner on the pavement,
A home for the daylight hours.
And hope, the reflection of empathy
Through a mirror on a frail face,
The smile lines as indiscreet,
As the wrinkles, forging a transaction
That sells plight on a silver platter,
Imploring, just a clatter of metal
Against the bottom of a makeshift tin,
Which becomes the noise, and then echo
Of smelting hope, through
The scattered lines of an open palm
To preserve the tenure, of the life line.
The Poor 2
It is through giving we extract the metal
Of one’s character, when metallurgy
Is just a science of extracting
The purest metal. We are only an offering
Away, the palm, just like the lip,
A token, just like a spoken word,
To shift the onus away from
A makeshift till, held in gripped palm,
To a heart that unsteadies the echo
Of filler, and keeps gratitude
Concealed inside the caving throat,
Letting it all go, in one instance,
In two words that always go hand-in-hand.
We can only look through the fractured eye
To see a clouded dream juxtaposed to reality
When we are just a hand-token away,
Selfless as a moth to a flame,
In the renewal of a mortal bond,
Which is, in earnest, like the holy Eucharist.
Incarnating touch, in its most human form