Children come to my door

Children come to my door
begging.

For cancer, for poverty.
All of it their own

Wee children with shiny eyes and bald heads,
kerchiefs testifying their truth.

“I’m your neighbour,” they say.
This is my sister, this is my father.

Will you buy my bauble? 5 dollars for the little one, 7 for the large.

Ugly pieces of who-knows-what hidden by dying, shiny eyes.

A count of coins,
a touch of finger tips,
a sad and sympathetic smile
and they’re on their way.

I wonder if I’ll see them again?

Fuck.

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