The PanhandlerA Poem by GraybeardThe result of a 6 word exercise
The old man's few remaining teeth
are yellow ghosts, haunting the space between his cracked lips. He loiters outside my building every morning. An exchange of words, a denial of currency, and a God bless you; both our lies twisting round a different set of ghosts in the graveyard city where we live. © 2008 GraybeardAuthor's Note
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