spare change

the lines of poverty

are drawn on their

faces. it flows through

their child’s veins.

they are not guilty

of being born into

a grotesque creation

of man’s underbelly

of god. in their

hammering heart is

the torpor of the

badger and the

hummingbird, a

revolutionary garden

is growing daffodils

against winter.

blessed are the

pauper’s empty

hands buried

in empty pockets.

his feet are stained

from poetry and

his voice has been

scratched by the

wind. he has

weaved his world

from crumbs and

he is wiser than

thomas jefferson

on a two dollar bill.

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