I walk with downcast eyes
afraid I might stare
at your misshapen body
sitting on a sheet of cardboard,
withered legs showing beneath a ragged
vest
a tray of pencils balanced on your lap
dented tin cup close at hand.
Afraid to see
your eyes
ashamed to be
afraid
embarrassed I
have no money for the tin cup.
The pencilled sign around your neck reads
Pencils, 10 cents. God bless you.
You are a fixture
on here, like the lamppost
on the corner.
I have watched
from across the street
as people walk quickly by.
A few pause,
fumble for some change,
drop some coins into your cup.
No one takes a
pencil.
I want today to
be different.
I tug my father’s hand.
‘Daddy can I have a pencil?”
We retrace our steps.
Daddy lifts a
pencil from the tray.
Nice sharp point, he says
looking directly at you
hands me a fistful of coins.
One by one I drop
the coins into your cup
hearing the satisfying clinks as they land.
Your voice is
deep and warm;
Thank you, young lady. Bless you.
Now I can look in
your eyes
Why did I expect your voice to be misshapen
too?
