At the side of the wide
Walkway leading out of the station,
Amidst an ebbing tide
Of commuters to destinations,
He softly intones,
“Three packet fifty cent.”
Most leave him alone,
On screens rather intent,
No world beyond the phone.
He stares stiff straight ahead,
Unseeing eyes all-seeing
The sum of discontent
In hurried steps all-fleeing.
I double back and press
Into his hands five dollars.
The price of guilty redress,
A pause in his soft chorus.
