Not all of my poems are about sunsets, the beauty of cobblestone clouds, the wafting scent of roses. Life has a gritty side, too, and some of my poems reflect that.
This encounter came a long time ago at a bus stop, a favorite trolling spot for panhandlers. There was a time when I would almost automatically hand over a bit of change. I could remember tough times, too.
But I had grown tired of being hit up day after day. My initial response was not very charitable, I know, but I relented. I imagine there's a lesson in there someplace, perhaps having something to do with the poor sparrows of this world.
The photo is mine. OK, so it doesn't show a downtown street, but I think it does serve as a backdrop for that "snow-blasted morning."
The poem appeared in Pebble Lake Review's Fall/Winter issue of 2005, and now is part of a manuscript (Strawberry Wine) in search of a book publisher.
And here it is:
HARD TIMES
Suddenly he's in my face,
dirty, wind-blown, muttering,
Spare a quarter? Refusing to let
his question assault me,
I turn away. Then back. My own
No, can you? comes spilling out
like a shot, freezing us there
in the snow-blasted morning
until finally his uncertain
chuckle descends into breath-
stealing, chest-stabbing coughs
and I fish deep in the warmth
of a pocket for a quarter,
hand it over, stand watching
as he moves away, this poor,
tattered sparrow with his crumb.
© 2006
***
Today's word:
tattered
2 comments:
The photo is spectacular. The poem is good, too, but tugs at me. Maybe that's because it is a well written poem. I have mixed feelings about the subject though. Miami is the mecca for beggars and I'd take them in to feed them in a restaurant, but that's not what they want. We get almost assaulted every time we come out of a store here.
This goes back to kinder times..tougher, of course. During the depression my grandparents would feed the "bums," as we called them then. Grandma would cook a meal of eggs and whatever goes with that, for them and they ate outside the back door. I've heard that there was a ribbon tacked on to a fence post, or some sort of signal indicating that they would be fed at particular houses. I never understood why we didn't just invite them in. The folks never really explained why not.
I have to smile at the snow picture, there wasn't that much snow in Southern Illinois, and pictures were always taken when it did. This one tugs at my feelings, as your poem did.
I'm glad you write about these things too! They are part of our world, afterall.
When asked for spare change, I think our occasional annoyance is more with conditions which allow people to become homeless than the individuals asking. I've worked and volunteered in shelters and most of the homeless I've met were homeless due to soaring medical costs and lack of insurance, or women and children seeking safety. There was a small minority of those who preferred drugs or alchohol to food but I didn't find that to be typical.
My gram told me stories, like Hechan writes, feeding the "hobos" during the Depression. My great gram did invite them in to sit at the table, but she was from some strong Russian stock and my great gramps immigrated here straight from Germany during WWI. I guess they figured they could handle whatever came up, but nothing ever did. Just shared cups of coffee, some toast and maybe eggs if there were any. I like to imagine all the stories traded over that table...
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