Mendicant

Hollowed out,
heart-in-my-throat,
hunger hurting into my bones

I come with cupped hands
-my begging bowl-
to the trysting place.

Worded-wheat is poured in
pressed down
running over.

My coat is asked
and then my cloak.
I stand with sandles
and a walking stick.
Enough.

Fettid footpath,
filled with haunting hollow eyes and hungry hands –
gauntlet!

Set out – sow!
Stored seed rots.

- S. Carla Mae Streeter