For a Poor Man

Scraping a living at the door,

Sitting alone

With damp seeping into your bones

Like ink on paper.

I too blot you out.

I glance

But I fail to see inside.

Into the loneliness of no one to share with,

Into the fear of troubles ahead,

Into the grief-stricken heart.

I fail to see beyond my assumptions

And into a piece of your story.

Forgive me as I search my pocket

For coins I had forgotten.

The least I could have done

Was to bend down

And ask your preference – tea or coffee?