Beggars

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I want to see them on the glossy paper
of the magazine.
Their shirts crumpled, untidy,
splashed with mud
seem pleasantly scented.
They don’t surround me,
begging for money,
their voices strangely calm.
I don’t feel a sudden tender pity
for them.
They are gazing at me
with a soft,
contented smile on their faces
discreetly concealed
by camera angles.
Their skin seems clear
and smooth,
their black hair like seaweeds
as they scavenge through garbage.
Flying raisins flew down on
their batchoy, fried chicken
inside paper boxes printed
with a happy bee mascot.
The journalist smiles
his elaborate charade
and hugs them
like a bit of a saint to put up with them.