7:00AM, while our moon

exchanged roles

with the rising sun

as a crowded thoroughfare

trembled above our heads

and

cars

passed

carrying

adults

/galavanting towards slavery/

I'm brutally reminded that,

when we are not busying

ourselves with coins

guilt scathes our purses

and the downtrodden's faces

are soon treated as the decor

for our charity

the boy interrogated

"what does service look like?"

I offered.

It is the clandestine bread given to a vagabond while only the grass bearing witness in our transaction

