The Beggars of San Miguel
Out the thundering door
from the courtyard to clattery,
overripe stench and bustle
of stony streets in slant
first light against adobe,
I walk the gauntlet each day
at dawn, again at one
and two, again at six,
and by nightfall the outstretch of hands,
the sharp tongues, the filmed-over eyes
with pupils looking off,
startled, in opposite directions,
the stumped or withered legs,
missing arms, all gone,
all gone, collected with their portion
of pity pay that day, scooped up
like dog shit off the streets,
carried back to where the day’s take
is calculated. Every morning
they drop again like corn seed
down the furrow of streets,
productive soil and rain
of guilt-ridden tourists,
ready to buy indulgences
against our garish sheen,
this vulgar, frightening luck.