when traffic idles
for a red light,
a hand holds up
a cardboard flap
scribbled with child’s print.
When the light turns green,
behind locked doors,
blind eyes
go by, go by.
Those who read
out of work, a family to feed,
sit on their wallets
and stern judgments.
Now and again
a window rolls down.
Now and again
a hand extends to a hand.
Does it matter
what hunger
a handout will feed
to offer relief?
Tell me, who isn’t hurting?
Who isn’t escaping
from something?
Who isn’t a beggar
for a better life?
