Fresh Hell nominated this piece for Pay It Forward Thursday
“I’m sorry, I don’t carry change.”
That’s what I always say, though sometimes
it’s a lie.
From Goa to Mumbai
it is considered unwise to give to children who beg on the streets;
better to donate to charities that protect them from their tormentors.
I live by that principle on my forays through this English town
where the victims are adult, their tormentors
are chemicals to be melted on a spoon and injected,
and their habit can kill.
These days I rarely engage with them;
they don’t require sandwiches, pasties or practical advice
and I can’t give them a bed for the night, so I can do nothing to assist,
yet those eyes kidnapped me as she begged beside Tesco Metro.
“I’m sorry – I don’t carry change,” I said.
It was the eyes that detained me;
eyes that sang in the storm of cause and effect,
in the chaos what…
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