She's there
with her new-borns
swaddled in dirty blankets,
and no place
to bear their weight
save for the cold
curb and the gaze
of pity.
Human nature
is vain to the poor,
its ubiquitous
shame so away.
It feels like the stigma
has a connotation,
but they don’t try
to admit being poor;
a few animals
are more than others.
Her motherly curve
won’t ruffle the eyes
to seize full cognizance,
nor will their infant wails
soften passers-by
along the fraction
of the road. Where’s
the father?
Is this a theatrical feat
to acquire the godly hand?
Two years ago,
a story flares up
like a lighthouse.
We mistrust the beggars
at the gate of the catholic
church by the luxury store.
Is this why Ashbery
had likened the beggars'
tenors to the wood's
song? And so, should I
have entrusted
the fifty naira note
when I wandered
by that bustling morning?