The Old Tin Can
A coin drops down from grubby hands.
A can rattles on brittle cobbles.
A man walks gruffly by, his eyes on the ground.
A man on the ground begs and grovels.
An old tin can, all but empty tips.
A man cuffs the contents in one palm.
A shopkeeper scoops the coins up, they scatter and slip.
A man leaves the store into the outside storm.
A man melts down, bundled up in the street.
A man shivers, propped behind his cardboard outside.
A can clatters to rest at his feet.
A can he must trust to survive.
And year by year, the cycle repeats.
The Spark 