Dirty dreadlocks
(are there any other kind?)
and fingerless gloves
sprouting nails
blackened
by tobacco and neglect.
‘Can you give us a cuppla dollars for a coffee? ’
his voice wheedled like Uriah Heap.
I looked at my daughter,
groomed and city slick beside me
and felt almost embarrassed
as I parted with a twenty dollar note.
‘Cool, mum'
was her unexpected response.
‘You know they’ll spend it on drugs.
But, what the heck?
At least they’ve met someone
nice
for a change.'
Alison Cassidy
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/urban-charity/
