My Widow's Mite

 MY WIDOW'S MITE

They are there,

Two bums,

Lounging in the summer sun

Before the store

I patronize for my food.

Even in the grip

Of darkest winter,

Huddled in dirty coats,

Rain or shine,

No matter the clime,

They are there.

            **********

They are the gatekeepers.

I must pay them

Before I pass within.

It is my tithe,

My donation,

My Widow's Mite.

And so, to each I give a dollar bill.

I ask not what brought them there.

Nor do I ask how they spend

The tithe I give.

It is no longer mine.

It is theirs.

They drink,

They smoke,

They fight,

But I do not shrink

From giving my Widow's Mite.

            **********

There was a new one with them today.

More grizzled,

More ancient,

Not lounging,

His walker would not let him lounge.

I pulled out a third dollar

And added him to my tithe.

He took it,

Hid it away somewhere,

Tried to shake my hand.

I gave a fist bump.

Then he poked one sharp finger

Into my belly.

"You're well-fed,"

He said.