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.