He stands by the traffic lights
Leading out of town, begging.
Not only is he mentally and
Physically handicapped, he’s
Also been left behind by his
Clan and despised by those
Who think they own the land.

In the poker game of life he was
Dealt a bad hand, yet he wears a
Silver cross around his scrawny
Neck and preys to God (For us?)
When lights change to green and
We don’t have to see this pathetic
Sight.

My empathy for him runs deep,
Somehow he reminds me of
My disown elder brother, can’t
Do anything to ease his plight
Other than for the few coppers
I give him when lights are red
And my conscience can’t escape.