Poor man

Poor men walk the streets of Salt Lake brandishing samurai swords. In past lives they were soldiers and investment bankers. Now they beg for loose change while laughing at birds and critters catching bread.
We should all be sick, but only notice when their cardboard signs interrupt our morning coffee. Some of them liars and some thieves, all people. All desperate. Cracked teeth and brown gums. Dry skin. They made that awful mistake of mistakes. Allowing life to compound and erupt. Now they act like scavengers. Gnarled finger tips that once shook on good faith now tremble in October.
I hand them folded dollars to get rid of them. To cut the conversation short. To ease my conscience and help me relax at night. Makes the hours of video games and fast food feel less damning if I remind myself of the kindness. The great leaps and bounds of my altruism. How without god I reached out to the wretched scattered ones.