The Pan-Handler

Pacing at an intersection along US-Forty,
Dirty hat in his hands, asking for some charity.
The cars whiz by, ignoring the disparity,
Of being homeless yet surrounded by prosperity.
The red light gives him the opportunity
To shake his hat, hoping for pennies.
My eyes lock front in the hopes he trudges past me.
But he just stares at my air of posterity —
Should he remain poor on the basis of conformity?
The look in his eyes speak only of pity
As they shame me with a stinging new sense of clarity.
So I roll down my window and hand him a twenty.

Steve D