Give by Haley

they sit close, elbows
touching, the boy with
the guitar and coat
with holes at the elbows

a sign is propped against
the black velvety case:
"For new strings and food"

people scurry past, like
they're afraid beggars have
Medusa eyes to turn them to
stone if they look too long

I've been one of them far
too many times, my mother
pulling me away by the elbow

I've asked her and my
stepfather why they never spare anything,
for she donates to drives and he's
so "Christian" that he snaps when
I say the good Lord's name in vain

she says if her money is
going to anyone else it will be
her children or a nonprofit

he says they're most
likely to spend it on
drugs

but I am alone now, and
the consequence of lectures
no longer hangs over my head
or anchor my heart down to everyone
else's deep cold indifference

yeah, I'm sure they
could spend it on drugs

I'm also sure they could
spend it on exactly what the
sign says they will

they're gypsies, wanderers...

you see them everywhere,
eyes brighter than their drab clothes,
scarves wrapped tight, instruments
the only warmth that greets them on
any given night

so I try what so many have preached,
but only given to a select few:

faith

I bend, long enough to
give the acknowledgment that
they exist, that their invisibility comes only
from those that have trained themselves immune,
numb

bills fall, like green streamers
of hope, because I know
a mere clatter of coins is not
enough to feed

"thank you, sister," he calls
as I stand up, gaunt cheeks of
ginger stubble turned rounder by
a grin of gratitude

my responding nod is
a quiet none, of the wisdom
that sacrificed lattes are much less
worthwhile
than the imprinted memory of his
smile