outside the liquor store a bum <br />begs for loose change. <br />car fare, he said, but the glint in his eye <br />of disillusionment and fury <br /> <br />reveals the ruins of Nineveh: <br />rocks broken, residents hiding among mountains, <br />fire consuming pathways to the capitol. elders <br />inspect the locust ravaged fields <br /> <br />of wheat and barley. all lost. the bum <br />bums dimes, quarters, nickels <br />shifting from one foot to the other <br />hoping to avoid the cold concrete <br /> <br />beneath him that is drawing him <br />in to its heat: oh paradox <br />of transfiguration <br />change me from the victim <br /> <br />to the victor and let me hear <br />clapping hands rejoice <br />at the ruins I leave behind. <br />the bum reaches deep in my pocket <br /> <br />amid lint and grime pulling up <br />a few coins that cradle the sun light, <br />counts them out and drops them <br />into my outstretched palm.<br /><br />Tim Gavin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/transfiguration-6/
