7:00AM, while our moon
exchanged roles
with the rising sun
as a crowded thoroughfare
trembled above our heads
and
cars
passed
carrying
adults
/galavanting towards slavery/
I'm brutally reminded that,
when we are not busying
ourselves with coins
guilt scathes our purses
and the downtrodden's faces
are soon treated as the decor
for our charity
the boy interrogated
"what does service look like?"
I offered.
It is the clandestine bread given to a vagabond while only the grass bearing witness in our transaction