Poverty cyphers, orbiting my surroundings.
The Goddess of the Sheltering Arms Soup Kitchen
collapses runny mash potatoes on my plate and
I welcome all nourishment, eyes closed.
so many starches call for me to perform transfigurations manifesting a steak
and baked potato.
Unfortunately, eyes open to reveal the bitter truth.
Walking barefoot I am angry at politicians, the policeman monitoring the
corner, and sickly crackheads that give me a bad reputation.
Rags cling to my being,
hands ache yearning for warmth. Ashamed of my status, clean-cut fellows spit
towards my feet.
"What do you want ", they ask me.
A moist mouth, dignity.
To read the newspaper amongst the subway riders wearing a grey suit and a
polka dot tie.
A chance to stroll up to the black woman, who waits patiently for the #6
bus, and tell her that she is the most beautiful, being, breathing.
"What do I want", they ask me.
To be a man.
 
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