He stands at the
crossroad, thin, pathetic in rags that wrap his hungry frame.
A car slows, a white arm flashes out
holding a bag, sandwiches hurriedly made. The boy grabs them, “Thank you, dankie.” A toothy grin, “Eish, peanut
butter again!”
A boy’s hunger sated for a few hours, a
woman’s conscience at bay for a day.
Out of the bushes, an even more ragged
figure shuffles. Once a white face, now wizened and brown, burnt by years of
relentless sun, peers myopically.
“Come, Oupa, share with me.”
“Thank you, my child.” A toothless smile.
Two homeless bodies huddle, breaking bread
together.
© Mary
Drabbe 2014