street preacher

A pocketful of change dropped in a dirty, broken cup is enough to illicit a smile from those cracked swollen lips. His dirty hands hungrily tally my trivial change, the stuff from the bottom of my bag, not even enough to get a hot drink with. But he smiles anyways...his smile, too wide for his face, opens up the cut on his lip exposing ruby red flesh. He runs shaky fingers through unwashed hair, and turns his head to look up at me through one good eye; the other is swollen shut, a bruised tattoo of street violence. From his torn mouth he whispers "bless you darlin" like a priest to a parishioner spoken from his unholy pulpit of dirty rags. My tithe accounted for... He turns back to the deaf assembly on the streets, preaching to a walking congregation. He speaks his message of hunger and hurt, of desperation and dirt, and like any church of late they do not heed his message. His message has become a chant, a looping dejected line that has lost its meaning "could you spare some change"...

...if only I could give him more than pennies...