Help | About | Suggestions | Alms | Chat [0] | Users [0] | Log In | Join
Poem: Submit | Random | Best | Worst | Recent | Comments   

How A Panhandler Kills (Free verse) by SupremeDreamer
A bum sits at the entrance of a Korean liquor store with his back against the wall. His puce overcoat enshrouds a decaying body, and greasy grey hair is hidden under a dunce cap. He clasps a bottle of rum in his right hand, his left held out for spare change, mumbling about the pretty girlies that were once the object of his worship as people walk by. Some passer-bys laugh at him, some are amused and smile, others pity him and all his kind. A young man hops out of a black Toyota and spots the hobo wearing soiled clothes. The dreary view causes him to frown. He walks up to the old man and groans. “You want me to give you some change don’t you?” The vagrant lifts his head to look at the man and reveals his jaundiced teeth with a grin. “I want you to give me whatever you think I deserve.” Grunts escape tender lips as the man enters the store. He buys a bottle of brandy and a pack of Marlboro Reds, saving three pennies for the bums empty hand. Walking out, he tosses the change onto the filthy ground and sneers. “There old man, heres three pennies, more than what you had before I entered this liquor store and you still have nothing.” Calloused lips deliver a chuckle along with grave words that the fool will remember forever: I may have nothing that you find valuable, but I have a thousand lives tucked under my raddled hat, so I know everything about your pathetic existence. I also know exactly whats gonna happen when you get home. Heres a little of what I know: I know that you love a woman who is an adulteress. You still want her, yet hate the whore. Heres your fate for today: Brandy will flow down your gullet while you weep with shame, ashamed because you think that you're a monster for having such rage and because you dream of committing murder. Tears will decorate the yellow tiles of your house, your moist eyes watching three little ruffians squeal like pigs as they run around the house. And you know what? When all that is happening, I will be here rolling three pennies along my knuckles, thinking about how I am three cents richer, fulfilled with the long life I have lived. My mind will be filled with thoughts of pity when contemplating bout that poor chap who has a Toyota, a trollop, three tykes, and a two story house. I will pity him because he'll be looking at all that makes him a respected member of this society, knowing he has accomplished nothing. You see, I have three pennies, my bottle of rum, and an endless filmroll of picturesque memories. I reside in heaven, and will continue to even when my bones rot under the ground. And what about you? You'll still be sitting at your dinner table crying.

Back to poem details

Jill Stockinger0:0:0:0:0:0:0:17January 2, 2021 1:07 PM PST
xxx68.164.242.1510June 5, 2005 11:18 AM PDT
Anonymous147.226.179.16810January 20, 2004 1:30 PM PST
Anonymous147.226.179.16810January 20, 2004 12:07 PM PST
horus824.126.113.1547August 21, 2003 11:20 AM PDT
richa81.86.241.468August 21, 2003 5:09 AM PDT
Joe-joe170.28.4.49August 21, 2003 4:02 AM PDT

Track and Plan your submissions ; Read some Comics ; Get Paid for your Poetry
PoemRanker Copyright © 2001 - 2022 - kaolin fire - All Rights Reserved
All poems Copyright © their respective authors
An internet tradition since June 9, 2001