Scavengers

It’s pretending to rain now
And you can see the huddled crowd
Beneath the tree-branch awnings
As they retreat to dryer surroundings;
Or so they pretend

The drops they feel,
Splashing,
Touch the faces
That look toward the heavens
And pray for a placebo.

They are scavengers
Looking for the scraps of faith
Others left behind,
And with their crumbling hands
They pick the city dry.

It’s pretending to be prosperous now
And all my friends cup their hands
To catch the coins which trickle down
And pluck the coupons from the sky;
Or so they would believe.

They are proper citizens.
They wait for it pour
And would not dare to bother with
A little something more
For fear that they would ask too much.

And all that charity
Which by allowance they’re to live--
The means of their allotted sum--
Is a dream that if they buy just one
The other will come free.

I’m pretending to be a beggar now
And I can close my eyes and see the faces
Rushing with imaginary rain
Because their broken shelters
Can’t occupy one more.

And all the outstretched arms
Are to embrace all that we have,
As little as it sometimes seems,
And overwhelming as a needy child
Agreeing with that which we’ve tried;

Imaginary friends plucked from
All the molded faces
That I’ve ever known.
We’re pretending to agree now
That it’s just a little storm