i am poor

he ran across the street, a cut-out in tattered cloth and scruffy beard, and the lights bled red and a symphony of horns and i wondered whose baby he was

where his mama lived and what his first word had been

and we hurried on,
past the asian couple in the corner and the teen in tight pants and the little girl with the long face pushing her doll in a stroller down subway stairs while her mama texted love

we passed the hands outstretched and the spaces that smelled and the hungry hollows and we arrived at a place where we felt safe enough to pull out our wallets for an event that promised to raise money for the poor






and we sat on cushions and listened to pretty songs and watched a man make art and another make humor and we laughed and patted ourselves on the back for all of this would benefit the slums in the end

and we were good people

for doing so

then we waited, for her to bring up the car so we wouldn't have to walk past the shadows,

the scarred faces, empty hands, the once-somebody's-baby now orphans-of-society

past the purity of the poor
the riches of the ridiculed and

the God we'd never know



with ann, thanking him for:
131. bed to sleep in
132. cushions
133. painful insight
134. a ride to church in the sleet
135. lunch
135. supper
136. breakfast
137. a bank account
138. hot shower
139. warmth of human contact
140. my easel