Karma

Sitting upon the
the cold concrete
is a rusted and old
empty tin.

The sounds of change;
dropping down,
clattering down
the drainpipe's cousin.

Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound of rain
for the modern Midas
is pocket change.

Tattered coat
filled with moth holes
has seen better days -
the tin is half empty.

Unshaven and unshaken,
he sits on the dark side
of the street, tired of the
broken concrete road.

Streetwalker commentary
on the sign that rests
on the sleeping man's
rising and falling chest.

I am deaf.
Spare any change,
please?

It is dark and cold
and the city is sleeping;
just a nap before
it's time to wake up again.

The man, in his hand,
holds a tin treasure chest
holding the generosity
better than his own.

Down the street,
around the corner,
up the stairs,
and through the door.

He is home.

The comfortable place
he takes for granted,
as he leaves the kindness
sitting on the counter top.

His hot dinner greets him
from the high-end microwave,
and his warm bed awaits
him with open arms.

Outside, there are children;
freezing in their makeshift
houses made of cardboard
and their stomachs' hunger.

Their dinner is warm too.
Comforting thoughts, and
make believe; if only
that could nourish their bodies
as much as their souls.

The alarm clock goes off
at seven o' clock sharp,
but he doesn't hear it
and he misses work.

It's one in the afternoon,
and he rolls over to see
grey clouds are rolling down
out of the clock's hands.

The silence is surreal,
crushing him with the weight
of his casual perjuries.
"Atlas has it easy."

But where is his voice?
The clock seems to have
lost it's own as well;
something has died.

Nothingness is more
than an empty wallet.
It's the black spots
erasing his eyes.

Blackout.

He trips and falls
over his own frantic feet;
a soundless crash
resounding in his bones.

A bloody kiss for the
shining marble tiles.
Who knew a polished stone
could have such a grim expression?

And sitting upon
the cold counter top
is an old and rusted
empty tin.