Tin Can Man
Every night down in the street i heard him open bin lids sorting through rubbish for tin cans, i hadn't seen but i just knew it, on dark almost every night.
bang, bang, bang
At the time i didn't have much money as i waited to start university living above a Thai restaurant in the city.
I had saved up a bag of coins, dollars, twenties, fifties for emergencies, and i had resolved to give this to the man who i called tin can man.
One night i heard him at the bins, shuffling, banging and rushed down the wooden steps through the restaurant out to the street below.
What i saw was a little bent over old man, intent on the bin he was looking in not noticing me at all.
I walked up to him with the bag in hand and said, 'Hey mate, i have something for you'. He had turned quickly, flinching at the same time, expecting an attack.
'I have these coins for you please take them', i had said quietly. He looked at me for a moment then took the bag, not saying a thing.
Then i went back to my room, and he to his life on the streets, but at least i helped if only a little bit.
A Hankering
Is there anybody hungry?
Is that gnaw even around?
When everybody’s fat
and burger joints abound?
I mean, if addict‘s can score hits
just by standing in a line,
then if anyone’s still hungry
it’s a bureaucratic crime!
Are there any kids still out there
with nutritional wishings?
Can you feel a hunger pang
whist obliviously Twitch-ing?
Or when Welfare pays you better
than the factory down the street,
so you’ve thrown your worthless man away
whose paycheck can’t compete?
And can there still be hunger
in a country so sublime,
that it‘s arming the Israelis
while aiding Palestine?
And if everyone’s invited
cause our borders don’t exist,
should we cry for who is hungry
but who will not dig a ditch?
Forgive me my foolish follies,
I know to you I sound obtuse.
But is emotional intelligence
not put to better use,
by placing useless passions
upon yesterday’s shelf,
and instead giving assistance to he
who cares to help himself?
An Image of Hunger
Today I commented
On a social media post.
Then I visited a mall,
On Facebook I did boast.
When I sit at my table
For Thanksgiving leftovers
I can’t shake the image
Of a man who didn’t smell sober.
I saw him outside the mall,
Cradling a cardboard sign
that said, “Will work for food.”
I walk by as if to him I am blind.
Now, my fork touches the potatoes
As the man’s words rattle in my brain.
He said, “I’m hungry. Can you help?”
I rationalized, he just wants cocaine.
After dinner, I check my phone
To see if my post has a like,
But a comment says I’m a mall rat
Who’s rich. What a stereotype!
How dare someone say I’m wealthy
When I am just comfortable.
My mind replays the man’s words
And I fear I too have pinned a label.
But what can I possibly do
To ease the plight of the hungry?
Perhaps I can start by seeing
That I am starved for empathy.
