Pride

I am too proud

for a place

in this ragged queue

of weary, defeated men

awaiting a daily ration

of thin gruel

 

I am too proud

for a place

on a downtown corner

behind a jangling

cup of coins

 

I am too proud

for monthly mail

from a kindly government

that cares for the indigent

and broken.

 

Pride prevents me

from seeing wounds

from which my life’s blood

drips;

pride causes me

to refuse a bandage

to bind

broken parts of me

 

Yet here I stand

faceless

amid a bag-laden crowd

and as my turn arrives,

a smiling volunteer

doles out a sandwich

of last week’s meat

on yesterday’s bread

for as this nameless day

fades

into a crisp cool evening

hunger

conquers

pride.

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