Cobblestone pavement seems endless,
as little kids run and food vendors sell.
The marketplace is abuzz with movement
and sound.

A man sits on the ground.
His teeth like jagged, crooked pillars.
The little hair he has, lays limp.

A few glints of silver
catch my eye.
The coins clatter around
in the plastic cup.

I bring my gaze down,
I see only one leg.
A part of me breaks.

My hand instantly dives inside my pockets.
Five pesos?
Is that really all I can give?

The coins drop, one after another.
They hit against the sides of the cup
and touch the bottom,
like keys opening the door to a home.

A home I know this man does not have.

I look back up,
at the torn clothes hanging loosely
from the beggar’s
frail body.

His teary eyes shine.
In admiration?
Gratification?

“Que Dios te bendiga.”

I only nod,
dumbfounded.

Some how, I tear my gaze away,
turn away from him.

I glance around,
blinking.

Everyone is minding their own business.
Are they all used to it?
Used to turning a blind eye to the homeless?
An old man just like this,
begging for a scrap—
a helpless look on his dusty face?

Blessed.

That’s what he had said.
May God bless you.

Only now do I see
how truly right he was.