There was a black man on the street, asking for a handout.
The glass between his hands was empty
as he begged the people that passed by
who, ashamed, looked down and walked away.
They glanced at the black man,
and they saw a blade under his worn-out coat;
a man who wasted his money on ****, ***** and drugs;
someone who didn’t want to study.
What I saw was a desolate man.
Someone who had tried to live, but hadn’t been allowed to.
Someone who wasted his spare money on food to feed the
kids he had had because he couldn’t afford protection.
Someone who invested the little that remained
on Spanish lessons so he could thank the few people
who looked at him like he was human, real;
thank them for the five cents they gave him.
I saw a man who wanted to get off the street.
A sweet and desperate man.
A man that was born on the wrong side of the tracks.
A hard-working man.
I spared some change for him,
and he held my hand
(Gracias)
His touch was rough after working;0
rough after building the foundations
of the buildings where people
who looked down when he begged
lived in.
Don’t blame him when they tear down.