How long do you want to die for? Is
it just for now, or do you want to die
for ever more – seemed an odd
sort of question to be asked from
the voice of a Good Samaritan at
the other end of the expressionless
telephone line, but I was fine with it,
since I was being trained as a newbe
operator at the safe end of the phone.
But I took good notice of the nuances
of talk to people struggling with their
bread-line lives, without a knife or fork
to call their own – and who sometimes
thought they were a load of junk and
lacking in a place to bunk inside a snug
and welcome a safety zone. Perhaps it’s
why I hand the beggar on the street a
sandwich treat or pie, or a can of fizzy
stuff, when passing by - seeing them
lying there, on blankets with haunted
eyes looking owl-like and tuckered out.
Doubtless there are the ones who try
it on – an act of fun perhaps – or with
more favourable paths to follow - on
a cold and wintry night, but since I am
the judge of it, I place my shiny coin in
the proffered hat and thank my lucky
stars for daily nourishment and kin.
Praying their betterment begins within.