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.