Imagine: the beggar’s bones
lurching across the dampened
roads, lurching across the land-
scape, untouched by the guise
of dignity; you’re owned
by his eyes—I’m sorry.
There’s light out now, no
troubles for the bones, a chair is there
to comfort them. His body creates
color. The shadow doesn’t cling to the wall
of his memory. It’s gone. He’s gone
to modest things—I’m so sorry.
Something settles within
you. Do you remember the hope
that you tried to pull? But then it happened,
and the beggar lost his role.
There is a need there. Too bad
he became you and I.