The
beggar hands me a box,
a gift,
small and compact,
no
wrapping or bow. He
pushes
it into my hand,
fearing
I will refuse it, and
then
walks away, disappearing
into
the sidewalk, crowded.
I
look for him but he was gone,
truly,
as if he had never been
there.
The box is smudged,
as
if it had been held a long time
by
dirty hands, I don’t know
whether
the beggar’s or my own.
I
open the box.
Photograph by Pennie Gibson via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
