He lies there,
On the middle
Of a paved road,
A broken heap
Of bones,
Covered by torn,
Heavily bruised skin;
The blood on his body
Has crusted,
It is no longer flowing,
His eyes are shut tight,
In unimaginable pain –
Whether from the blows
They rained in
Mercilessly,
Or the horror,
Of being caught
Red handed,
In the act of thieving,
Or the shame,
Of bearing the humiliation,
So open, as if on display,
For everyone to see,
And yet, deeply private,
His final act of desperation,
To feed his young,
And thereafter himself.

He lies there –
His hands partially covering,
His bedraggled face,
While still holding on,
To the stolen loaf
Of days old bread,
That has pushed him,
To death,
And disgrace.

He lies there –
Still,
For in death,
There is no longer
Any of that tortuous,
Demanding hunger;
While his children,
Will remain unfed
For days on end,
And then eventually,
Be driven to thieving,
Much like him –
To quell the pangs,
That will rise
Deep within,
Their empty,
Demanding bellies.

Image Credit: Photo by Matt Moloney on StockSnap