Hard Times

Suddenly he's in my face,
dirty, wind-blown, muttering,

Spare a quarter? Refusing to let
his question assault me,

I turn away. Then back. My own
No, can you? comes spilling out

like a shot, freezing us there
in the snow-blasted morning

until finally his uncertain
chuckle descends into breath-

stealing, chest-stabbing coughs
and I fish deep in the warmth

of a pocket for a quarter,
hand it over, stand watching

as he moves away, this poor,
tattered sparrow with his crumb.

Copyright © 2006 Robert L. Brimm All rights reserved
from Pebble Lake Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission