For the beggar in the train at dusk-

Visit in the morning and do your thing.
Sell your act and we may be obliged to part with
some stainless steel coins.
Do not wait for the whole schmigeroo to descend on us,
with their whips and dholaks, lyres and ektaras,
strings on their caps,
blind, crippled, impostors of gods,
painted blue or with tails and monkey faces,
with brooms,
Acting like they wish to clean that T-shaped space under your feet,
with running noses and matted hair,
disgruntled eyebrows or vacant stares.
They swarm in hordes.
And then the elegantly garish, make-up laden eunuchs,
clapping at you in authoritative sexual blackmail,
reaching out to shock your senses and other things.,
reaching out , so only fear exists.
As long as your money in your pocket does.

That’s not to say that you don’t get the job done,
you don’t get the dirt off the floor,
but when you ask,
we are tired,
filing empty cups and open hands, spent coins.
Wishing none like you shall ever come,
And hushing you away with the annoyed flick of a hand.