A beggar approached me on the street
and pleaded for a dollar bill.
I made sure our eyes didn’t meet
of beggars like him I had had my fill.
A man with no feet was sitting by a wall.
He hailed me, waving his hand.
“Nice pencils for sale, cost is small.”
I cared not to answer his demand.
A homeless man came to me from an alley,
“Please, sir, do you have a little to spare?”
He smelled of drink, I sought not to sally.
I hurried my pace to show I didn’t care.
As I neared my bank, I soothed my mind:
“It’s their fault to be in that condition.
They'd be fine if only the will they would find.”
Then I withdrew my cash with no contrition.
This poem is not autobiographical.
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