The Affluent Panhandler Poem by Quame Boatmann

She called me like a cab
Right hand in pocket
Left hand says come
From road’s other side

Baby at black back aglow
Fastened with white linen below
A pretty young mother
Graced with embroidery apparel

Out of the cruel sun in her presence
A little halt from my hasting rush
Skin drenched as if from the pool
Breathing like a marathon horse

And there I stood a disregarded being
Like a hovering spectre in her presence
So busy with the voice in her ear
As if she never called me here

But before I leave she halts
Now she’s got good time for me
Only to demand one red Ghana note
A simple reason for her call

So she’s a one?
What I dare not suspect
And with a choice too
Aiming at my all

Yet give, I must, for faith’s sake
A bias deferment for a day’s meal
Till the moon succeeds the sun
Oh damn these panhandlers!