wish I didn’t understand.
On a cold steep night, Harley rumbling ‘tween my knees, I watch the beggar man dig, his gleeful dance at morsels found, a gobbling pirouette. Eyes closed tight, a beast warren of hunger prowling bones of the poor. Momma got no fat kids. Proud and fearful, she prays. She works at the club restaurant bar, a ten-penny waitress, pinch and tip, empties plates into her hideout bag, treasures she smuggles home to her litter.
Ah, Mister Beggar Man, we are brothers of the blood. Underneath coffee grounds, slick ash cigarette, lies the prize precious ort. We are proud in our poverty, angry in our shame, wrong side of never and lost, found wanting. I kiss the wind between us, ride fast into the night.
© 2017 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©