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Arlice W Davenport
Poems
Jul 2019
No Money
He slumps against the charity's steps.
Torn, oversized Army jacket, a ragged
stocking cap, unwashed face and hands.
His arm extended, he asks for a few dollars.
I resist his obsequiousness and answer
that I carry no cash, which is a lie.
I ponder why I am so afraid to associate
with him; his presence a finger of shame
pointing directly at my recalcitrance.
I drive home in my air-conditioned car,
thinking that I had helped him stay off
the *****. No money was for his own good.
Then my conscience strikes me hard: I am a liar,
a coward. That could have been my brother,
living alone on the cheap streets of Costa Rica.
I quickly turn the car around, race back
to the charity, whose doors remain closed.
I search among the grimy faces. He is gone.
Written by
Arlice W Davenport
M/Kansas
(M/Kansas)
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