Children come to my door

Children come to my door

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?



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: