Panhandler

She stands on the corner with her sign,
cars grumbling, waiting for the green,
their drivers jittery jays, the line

eternal. Visibly unseen,
she eyes their windshields. Now it turns
and all, from van to limousine,

tear out as if the city burns.
She clings to her soggy cardboard, blinking
at pellets pelting roadside ferns

as cold as her toes. The day is sinking.
More cars pull up with holiday gifts
(no, not for her). Exhaust fumes stinking,

belching billows, a Chevy shifts
to second. While others follow after,
she shivers in the swirling drifts,

wincing at the blizzard’s laughter.


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