The Beggar

Dirt was etched into his hands,

His stomach flatter than any pans,

With nails, coarse,

And his voice hoarse,

His knees were ragged,

And the skin tanned,

The road beneath his scraped his hands and knees,

Every time he rose to squeeze,

A passerby’s hand,

But most of them would merely slap him firsthand.

But he was who he was,

A mere beggar,

            Who didn’t have much time for Santa Claus,

Because he was busy making money for his ill mother,

Who could do nothing but lay in bed and smother,

Into her pillow,

As minute struck him as hard as a billow.

The sun was unbearable,

But after so many years it wasn’t so terrible,

Rich people came and went throwing money at him,

Not waiting to even a spare a glance at his broken limb,

But who could blame them?

They didn’t know how it was to live in a slum,

They had bungalows and palaces- all so lavish,

They could cook any vegetable cabbage,

Into a miracle of their own,

Or fry crooked bone.

But one rule the beggar always applied,

Not matter how much the rich people tried,

There were some things that only the poor knew,

Of the cool breeze that blew,

Caressing their faces like a fairy,

And granting their wishes better than a genie.

What did they know?

Of the fresh air and the stars so high,

Sky clear of any satellites and planes nigh,

They couldn’t know of the smell that surrounded,

The children as they slept under the oak tree- unclouded,

Of any smoke or pollution,

A problem with no solution,

But yet the rich worshipped,

Everything that will do everything to worsen,

Nature and life,

To speak the truth poverty wasn’t strife,

Rather a blessing in disguise.