Been a long night come,
and several trains,
to bring me right back home again.
And in the frigid fallen air
I see two men
a-lying there –
both blend in with darkest night,
the left stands up
the one on right
cannot.
A wheelchair is his curbside throne
where he blurts a chilly groan
protesting Lefty’s aims for home
wherever that may be.
Their speech is English,
yet is not
as if two jawbreakers rolled
and lolled about precariously
in hungry cheeks –
tongues the only thing to chew
on this and many bitter nights.
Reloading my Oyster card,
I was approached
by the rolling man
and I knew what he wanted
though I failed to hear
through those exaggerated lips.
Pity cloaked,
tobogganed head,
olive coat, oiled and greased,
and -most of all-
that mobile shrine of suffering.
I gave him twenty pounds,
was blessed,
and hurried on my way.
But as I left Barnes Station
I forgot:
Did I tap my Oyster card a second time?
I returned with haste
in time
to see the crippled homeless man
scaling the stairs
wheelchair under his arm.
He passed me,
his head low,
as if I would forget the pathetic man
I gifted twenty pounds to.
It was then that I realized:
I’d been bambeggared.
Morning's Early Dark 