I made myself some hot coffee
one late afternoon and poured it
into a flask, ready for a long walk
usually prescribed to unburden
one’s head of the troubles of the day
and on the way I met a woman,
palm face up, the usual posture
begging in her corner of the street.
“Some money,” she said, “for a
hostel tonight,” and I, with
nothing in my person but keys
and the coffee, took the flask
out of my coat pocket and
offered her a drink.
“I don’t like coffee,” she said.
“How about some change instead?”
I stared, first at her
then at my hands where the flask
lay warm and heavy, suspended
mid-offer.
And as I sat on my usual bench
I poured a cup still steaming hot,
glanced down at my humble drink
not good enough even for the street.
It looked back at me with
brown eyes that glistened with
a feeling that I knew too well.
“There, there,” I said, “no more
walking down that bend.”
And as I sipped we, to each other,
unburdened our heads
of the troubles of the day.