He weaves slowly between the tables
at Buongiorno's

stooping over each diner's ear
close and intimate as a lover

He asks if they can spare a little
money for his lunch

He's gaunt each cheek shadowed hollow
his skin bleached white as bone

Each vertebrae is marked prominent
Each finger skeltonic thin

Unsocked, in shoes laced with knots of string
leather uppers baked, cracked and crazy creased

His hair is dry-straggle stalks of corn
Eyes hold a stare that fixes fast the lies

He cuts a powerful figure under that cosy awning
though some name him worthless beggar

Fearless of taunts and titles offered from shamemongers
and well-respected-men-about-town

there is no guilt in asking for your basic needs
from the latte-ccino mob who have so much to spare.

© M.L.Emmett