Testiment

An old man
His appearence, completely hardened, weathered, beaten, tattered, spent, and terminal

Stretched out his darkened hand, his black clothes, a reminder of the strength gone out of his stringy, straight, exhausted and frost-colored hair, blowing in the chilly dusk breeze;

“bek won issuyo?” was the practiced sound of time itself, in this overworked man’s voice, asking matter-of-factly if I had a 100 won coin, a tenth of a thousand won note; the Korean dollar bill

“Aniyo, chaesonghabnida”, came my depressed, negative response from my fortunate body, my eyes, I’m sure, betraying shame, regret, awe, and solemnity

His hunched frame, beneath his unexpectant head turned to go…

“Chamkanmanyo”, I said, asking him to wait, while struggling with my fingers in the change pocket of my fashionably torn up jeans (an  embarrassing endulgence in the face of the plight of this hulking, forgotten human being, and others like him, who wear clothes like my pants, not by choice)

I took out two coins, we outstretched our hands, and without touching, this child of another nation; the unelected center of the the defacto world-empire-like Michelangelo’s Yaweh, giving life in the vaults of the Sistine Chapel, I dropped the paltry currency into the waiting palm of this dying man’s hand

He is a long way from being Adam, but a testiment to our certainly not deserving Eden

With no more sound, he purposely went to a fountain and drank with his hands

Then he left me
To shamelessy write this poem

Feeling guilty

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