there's an old man
at the corner of the street
he sits in the dirt
eats food off the pavement
and with a little wooden stick
cleans the wounds
eating up his legs
there's an old woman
who stands by the walkway
of the busiest mall
she holds up a small tin
begging for change from passers-by
her head's usually buried
in the ground
her eyes
almost shut
whose parents these are
i wonder
as i shove a 20-dollar bill
deeper inside my pocket
as i walk past
it's the last one i've got
the economy is bad
plus
you don't give money to strangers
in this land
they'll steal your luck,
your blessings or your hand
whatever people call it these days
you'll go broke
and not know why
i heard it from
someone
on my way back from church
i'm the only sinner there
sometimes
but whose parents these are
i wonder
maybe i can help
but what do i know
about helping the needy
or paying taxes
black taxes
like i said
the economy is bad
almost all the time
i thought i'd be a doctor
and earn bigger
thought i'd be a pilot
and go places
thought i'd buy mama
a house
with a sofa in it
her knees are bad
can't stand that long
i hope she can wait a little long
i'm not a doctor
i'm a struggling writer
struggling to put
words and feelings in the same sentence
i'm a journalist
i clean the racks of politicians
where fish rot
looking for the money
that never reaches the poor
i thought i was special
the only one
whose dreams didn't get washed down the drain
clean money
office jobs
it's no complain
i love my job
i wouldn't tell you even if i didn't
nobody does
i sit it out
9 to 5
i'm lying
until seven
or a little over that even
depends on how i feel that day
you'd be lucky to see me
tucked in a chair behind a brown table
at the corner of the street
he sits in the dirt
eats food off the pavement
and with a little wooden stick
cleans the wounds
eating up his legs
there's an old woman
who stands by the walkway
of the busiest mall
she holds up a small tin
begging for change from passers-by
her head's usually buried
in the ground
her eyes
almost shut
whose parents these are
i wonder
as i shove a 20-dollar bill
deeper inside my pocket
as i walk past
it's the last one i've got
the economy is bad
plus
you don't give money to strangers
in this land
they'll steal your luck,
your blessings or your hand
whatever people call it these days
you'll go broke
and not know why
i heard it from
someone
on my way back from church
i'm the only sinner there
sometimes
but whose parents these are
i wonder
maybe i can help
but what do i know
about helping the needy
or paying taxes
black taxes
like i said
the economy is bad
almost all the time
i thought i'd be a doctor
and earn bigger
thought i'd be a pilot
and go places
thought i'd buy mama
a house
with a sofa in it
her knees are bad
can't stand that long
i hope she can wait a little long
i'm not a doctor
i'm a struggling writer
struggling to put
words and feelings in the same sentence
i'm a journalist
i clean the racks of politicians
where fish rot
looking for the money
that never reaches the poor
i thought i was special
the only one
whose dreams didn't get washed down the drain
clean money
office jobs
it's no complain
i love my job
i wouldn't tell you even if i didn't
nobody does
i sit it out
9 to 5
i'm lying
until seven
or a little over that even
depends on how i feel that day
you'd be lucky to see me
tucked in a chair behind a brown table
at Avani
on an evening
drinking coffee in this heat
i go there to write poems
like these
but still there's an old man
at the corner of the street
he sits in the dirt
eats food off the pavement
with a little wooden stick
he cleans the wounds
eating up his legs
i saw it
through his torn, dirty clothes
maybe he too had dreams
that went down the drain
or maybe his aim
was just not that good
there's an old woman
who stands by the walkway
at the busiest mall
she holds up a small tin
and begs for change from those
who pass by
her head is always buried
in the ground
her eyes
almost shut
i wonder who she raised
and where are they now
i wonder who she sacrificed herself for
on an evening
drinking coffee in this heat
i go there to write poems
like these
but still there's an old man
at the corner of the street
he sits in the dirt
eats food off the pavement
with a little wooden stick
he cleans the wounds
eating up his legs
i saw it
through his torn, dirty clothes
maybe he too had dreams
that went down the drain
or maybe his aim
was just not that good
there's an old woman
who stands by the walkway
at the busiest mall
she holds up a small tin
and begs for change from those
who pass by
her head is always buried
in the ground
her eyes
almost shut
i wonder who she raised
and where are they now
i wonder who she sacrificed herself for
so they're strong for her
when she is low
her last love
who did she give it to?
whose parents these are
i still wonder
i know a few from the meetings
from the bar
the coffee table
from TikTok
maybe they'll monetise us soon
our million-dollar dream
so you and i can buy mama a house
with a sofa in it
her knees are bad
can't stand that long
i hope she can wait a little longer though
when she is low
her last love
who did she give it to?
whose parents these are
i still wonder
i know a few from the meetings
from the bar
the coffee table
from TikTok
maybe they'll monetise us soon
our million-dollar dream
so you and i can buy mama a house
with a sofa in it
her knees are bad
can't stand that long
i hope she can wait a little longer though