A sharp wind
makes me pull down my hat,
tighten my coat.
"Bloody freezing, innit."
He has no gloves.
His blue swollen fingers
barely close around the cup
which rattles in response
to the few coins I let drop.
"Thanks, mate."
He huddles a little deeper
into the recess by the bank’s
cash machine.
"They should move them on.
Bring the neighbourhood down."
I turn. The owner of the complaint
is tall, blonde, sheep-skinned,
with tell-tale signs
of trying to stem the tide of aging.
I suddenly feel guilty by association.
Because I gave him so little?
Because I gave at all?
Because I smiled at her?
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and seven poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
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