The beggars
Skid had run out of barrels and kegs.
His tiny place overflowed once again.
His corner, with ordered cans, metal, other junk,
Could not span more scavenging.
He had time left merely to beg.
Rich in street simples,
His torn coat was dollar full,
His beard without sweat.
He was a good sketch.
In the cold, winter sun stared on his eaten wools.
Years past, he had graded them.
He’d known his microns at one time.
Brother Moth had known them since.
City license posted anew, he had clipped it
Firm to bare jacket, double breasted, deftly stained.
Its effect bore inchoate poverty and want.
Knowing how to pose,
He looked to be striving-
Dancing for those driving.
He started singing in quiet couplets:
‘The lady loved her burning rum,
And coke to cool it on her thumb…’
‘I laugh in the bitter aft.
Folks drive by and think me daft.’
‘A union card I have to show
For work that I will never know.’
Song and coin shortened the day.
A surety about its way:
It might, but he never made change
However his verses might range.
Now he stood with faithful partner
And stenciled sign,
Showing work conditions bleak
As the traffic lined.
So day went, into near dusk;
The struck seven clock
Gave an end to the day’s card,
Hour unpunched, unblocked.
Free to cease his current begging,
His garbage love, pierced and leggy,
Had come to pull a wagon.
Deliberate, he slowly checked
Its metal treasure,
While she copped another five
With her toothless smile.
The meth dark,
Had got Slim years ago;
He found her,
Took her in up north.
Her hips worked well, very well,
As she held the homeless sign
That said ‘God Bless All’,
And they readied for the night
At their new motel.
