My attire is shameful and I wonder
Whether the French lady will come out again
And hand me a bag of bread.
Does she know how much I’d rather
Pay for that bread instead of receiving
Them free of charge? Does she know
I’d thank her if it were not for the last bit of
Pride inside that chokes me whenever
I open my mouth?
She emerges
Parts the curtains and daintily makes
Her way towards me with her usual bag.
I can already taste them and I wonder
How many of them she has put in the bag
This time.
She doesn’t smile nor does she frown
Upon handing over the bag.
The manner with which she thrust it
Upon me says take it old man and be gone.
Hunger departs for a time
and flavorful shame sits
weightily in my stomach.
I grab the bag and, as usual,
quickly depart without thanking her.
|
Submission Name: Pride of the Homeless
