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The homeless, we will term them,
jackal vultures, circle the nest
of notes and coins.

Their dissuading odour
and unmatched taste
off-put potential tippers.

If I chuck at them a few
coins they bug me even more.

One time, when I complained
I said to myself they’ve only begging
or burglary or buskers.

These junkies, poppers,
Summer’s limit sprung,
there’ll be nothing in autumn
having not planted a thing.

They come onto
my open self reliance
but do not close in
and I am expected to share

this bounty, fruit, grief—
the poem is becoming
an Aesop tale, I can pay
them for the inspiration.

They sneak in disguised
as mortal need.
Contact is better steered
to qualified rehabilitation

personal, though. See,
they are comical, I added,
flicking each a gold coin,

see how they walk, they roll, uneven
un-still, a mess in confusion;

and see how visible they live:
Perfection has not missed,

partnered accurately to the contribution
and, they do not hide from us

their hurt, chaotic patterns.
Yeah, are you desperate,

greedy pluckers, who wasted
all that moolah on tattoos,

I thought to myself.



Cuba Mall, Wellington

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