When the Poor become Props

7:00AM, while our moon

exchanged roles

with the rising sun

as a crowded thoroughfare

trembled above our heads






/galavanting towards slavery/

I'm brutally reminded that,

when we are not busying

ourselves with coins

guilt scathes our purses

and the downtrodden's faces

are soon treated as the decor

for our charity


the boy interrogated

"what does service look like?"

I offered.

It is the clandestine bread given to a vagabond while only the grass bearing witness in our transaction