Lines in the spaces
mark parking places,
defaced by the traces of debris.
Oil hits the air
and gas fumes all flare
in the smell of combustion everywhere.
A man with a pot
rings a bell as you walk
past the people toting things they have bought.
Late in November,
it’s pushing December,
the bell compels conscience of charity.
A beggar meanders
the remainders of money, for free.
A constant reminder
that fortune portenders
make of supplicants a mendicant by degree.
Copyright © 2011 Marvin Loyd Welborn. All Rights Reserved.
this has a haunting rhythm to it marvin…and an all too common sight these days…nice end line too…
i agree with bri on the haunting rhythm… tried to decode the form…using all my fingers to count syllables…smiles…love the structure.. really perfect for the topic marvin
lovely verse with a poignant message. well done, my friend!
I find a similar theme underlying our poems. Re: your comment on my blog, it seems your census experience could be an inspiration for many a poem, Marvin.
Poignant and timely piece. Nicely done – and gentle reminder of the season!
ah yes, it’s that time of year…bells jingle outside all the grocery store near my house; all hoping for a little fortune and a run in with a few giving folks.