The Busy and the Beggars

Rainy, rainy day, another waiting shift. I’m waiting for commuters, waiting for their gift. Waiting for derision, for looks and words of hate, I’m waiting in the pouring rain, with my beggar’s plate. I’m sitting looking at their lives, so busy, so complete, sitting as they scurry by, rat like, on their feet. Each isolated from the rest, cocooned in waking dream No talking to each other, eyes scanning tiny screen. Only safe communing, with the voices in their head, If asked a question out aloud, their faces pale with dread. I sit in cold and see the world, viewed from my tainted brain Waiting for commuters stepping from their train, I cannot touch these people, my real, “me” I hide He’s hidden now so deeply, I fear he’s lost inside These people do not know me; I don’t have, a “username”, but the busy and the beggars, we’re really just the same.