(found in one of my journals as I was browsing today)
Monday, February 9, 2004

A beggar at the gate, I come
knocking, waiting, head slumped
On breast, worn out yet work never done.

But yesterday I was maiden fair,
damsel, waiting, eyes searching
For a champion, someone to take my cares.

Now, today, I am a serf,
menial, waiting, knowing
My desserts are found on meaner tables.

So, why do I even bother knocking?

Why are beggars beggars? A lack, a need, even at times, a want. Beggared by circumstance–a wound, a disease, a fire that takes livelihood and all–or beggared by self–inability to keep ourselves afloat, we let go of the dignity of self-reliance and we ask, then we beg.
What do beggars beg for? A crust, a crumb, a bone. Anything to keep themselves alive. Dare they ask for more? A seat at the table? a full plate? Dare I ask–tonight–for sustenance and MORE? I have nothing to pay for it. Idiot that I am, I spent my last doit on other things–some worthless, I suspect. But my meagre salary could never hope to buy a prince’s place at the king’s table. What am I thinking?

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