What did he want from me?
Not to ask for money,
like the stream of beggars
before him who needed
just a dollar or two.
Not to take my money
forcibly, he didn’t
look the type.
Not a cigarette,
not a light.
Not directions
from this young lamb
delivered fresh to the city
only hours before
and wandering lost as anyone here.
Not the bag
of clothes I had over
my shoulder, pressed tight
to my body. Because he had more
style than me.
His wild
blond hair and the moustache
of an artist. Denim shirt
unbuttoned, chest exposed.
What then?
what did he want, as he reached
out to me with sheets of paper
in his hand containing words
written in recognizable form?
“I just want you to read my poetry man”
Was all he said
as I brushed past the papers
in his hand and walked on,
eyes towards the ground.
I wonder about him now.
Does he still wander those streets?
Was he even real
or the ghost of a possible future?
Because I am that beggar now,
roaming these unfamiliar streets,
sheets of paper gripped in my hand,
arm outstretched,
chest exposed,
Begging you.
Author Bio
Eoin Cahill
Eoin Cahill (He/Him) is based in Cork, Ireland. A husband and father of two boys. His work is published in Dreich Magazine and the Daily Drunk Mag. Find him on Twitter @eoinspoems