Hobo+Poem

THE WOULD-BE-BEGGAR

The would-be-beggar felt pained and light-headed, clutching at the fraying ends of a world slipping away.

A second thunderclap rang out in the humid night.

Flies and mosquitoes clung to the beggars eyelids as he stumbled through the tall grass, towards a knotted oak tree.

A third thunderclap accompanied by a cry of pain.

Reached the tree, running out of time.

The beggar fumbles with grubby, gloved fingers at the bark; his pleas for mercy are just babbling now, his motions are jerking and desparate.

In the dim moonlight he can just make out the shape of the inscription etched in the oak's bark.

//Man with gun,// he thinks.

And as the final thunderclap sounded, his final question was: //Why?//

-Walter Kunkle