THE PENCIL SELLER

 

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?