He smoked his single cigarette upwind
Noticing the tears welling in my eyes,
“Does this bother your?” He grinned.
“No, it’s just the wind.” Partly true, partly lies.
He asked me my name and my story.
I gave him the short answer,
One of ease, with little worry.
I didn’t ask for his, I pondered cancer.
He asked for my help, I knew he would.
He had no job, no home, and no phone.
He said if he had a phone, then he could.
A cheap twenty-dollar purchase, just to be known.
I told him I could help a little,
Feeling cornered, I reached into my pocket.
Retrieved four dollars, crumpled and brittle.
Unbeknownst to him, I was a simple pickpocket.
For in my right pocket, was five dollars,
And in my left was another forty.
Instead of stealing material from him,
I stole his chance of a new life.
Primitive Poetry 