Through a Beggar's Eyes


The penny fell


Hitting the rust-rough bottom,

And his enduring eyes crinkled in

Crescent-moon bliss.


Sang the pigeons, Thank You! In

All their ruffled/sleek pomp

And he watched, gaze milky,

Drooling shy

Childish glee


Feet strutting out to a

tap-tapping dance

Bowing to you, bowing to me –

Madam, how do you do

On this very fine day?


His own personal actors

Swirling musicals sweeping glittering

Across the dusty, baleful sidewalk,

Worth a thousand

Moulin Rouge golds.




Blooming breath into flaxen

Whimsical Imagine-things

Of glass-blown trees tinkling silky

To the rhythm

Of grassgreen waves,


And the mauve sweet fruits lying tender

Against his youthful lips,

And the lilting song

Of children fragile

With voices bubbling pure.


Of the everlasting sky shining a cold crystalline blue

Mocking gaily the wispy white

That danced among the Sun's golden

Graceful flowing strands,

Laughing as stars careened by.


And him, sitting in that

Infamous park bench

With the breeze in his face

And the morning dew on his toes –


Breathing in the world.



And thus


He did not hear the blaring horns

And rushed, empty footsteps

Of busy workers,

Busy students,

Busy mothers busy fathers –


Slipping past his corner

On dingy South Street,

Nor smell the choking black


That spilled over the asphalt


Or taste the desperation

Heavy in the air,

That beseeched passers-by

To spare

Just that one small coin.




He did not see the

Calculated oilshine

Of the ugly modern buildings,

That stood smug oozing thick

Mechanical – deadness.


That threatened to crush

Him and his fellow beggars

For marring the perfect conformity

Of that grinding, concrete





The blind, old man nuzzled his

Face against the soft, welcoming sky

And laughed –

Blithe in the beauty

That glowed in his heart.