12-27-2016, 11:45 AM
Christmas Beggars
A true story
Bitter cold, one week before Christmas day,
Stuck in traffic, unmoving, a wreck up ahead.
To my right, at a light,
the exit for a strip mall,
entered the road we were stranded on.
My wife pointed to the corner,
Where the two roads met,
At one of those huge,
multi-signal traffic lights.
“Look,” she said.
Standing where she pointed,
at the corner, beneath the light,
begging for money,
a very thin woman,
with dull orange-red hair,
holding a sign saying please help me,
a victim of abuse,
with a little baby,
not more than a few weeks old,
cradled tightly in her arms.
Wind was blowing hard,
Dark was coming on,
snow beginning to fall.
“I’m going to go give her some money,” said my wife.
“Not on your life, you’ll freeze to death,” I said.
If you have to give her some money,
then wait till we’re nearer!”
“But that baby is freezing!” she wailed,
as her hand grabbed for the handle,
of our brand new car door.
Just then, the thin orange-red haired woman,
with the cold, red-faced baby,
turned,
and walked to an old powder blue Impala,
parked no more than ten feet away.
It was running,
exhaust spewed out the back.
There was a man in the driver’s seat,
and as the rear door sprang open,
another thin, orange-red haired woman,
got out from inside.
The woman with the baby,
slid quick by,
obviously in a hurry,
to get to the warm inside.
She paused for just a moment,
just long enough,
to hand the other woman,
her package, her prop.
These women were fakes,
but the cold, red-faced baby,
who had to stay outside,
was real enough.
erthona
©2005
A true story
Bitter cold, one week before Christmas day,
Stuck in traffic, unmoving, a wreck up ahead.
To my right, at a light,
the exit for a strip mall,
entered the road we were stranded on.
My wife pointed to the corner,
Where the two roads met,
At one of those huge,
multi-signal traffic lights.
“Look,” she said.
Standing where she pointed,
at the corner, beneath the light,
begging for money,
a very thin woman,
with dull orange-red hair,
holding a sign saying please help me,
a victim of abuse,
with a little baby,
not more than a few weeks old,
cradled tightly in her arms.
Wind was blowing hard,
Dark was coming on,
snow beginning to fall.
“I’m going to go give her some money,” said my wife.
“Not on your life, you’ll freeze to death,” I said.
If you have to give her some money,
then wait till we’re nearer!”
“But that baby is freezing!” she wailed,
as her hand grabbed for the handle,
of our brand new car door.
Just then, the thin orange-red haired woman,
with the cold, red-faced baby,
turned,
and walked to an old powder blue Impala,
parked no more than ten feet away.
It was running,
exhaust spewed out the back.
There was a man in the driver’s seat,
and as the rear door sprang open,
another thin, orange-red haired woman,
got out from inside.
The woman with the baby,
slid quick by,
obviously in a hurry,
to get to the warm inside.
She paused for just a moment,
just long enough,
to hand the other woman,
her package, her prop.
These women were fakes,
but the cold, red-faced baby,
who had to stay outside,
was real enough.
erthona
©2005
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
