A Film Star In Babylon Poem by Jerry Pike

Half covering your face,
you approach,
shamelessly ashamed.
Thin, pale by moon, with loose blonde curls.
The night stunts you, levelling us,
and to me,
you murmur something beneath the dark.
I breeze past, a film star in Babylon.
No beggars tonight.

Brazenly I pour money on the counter,
two instant meals in paper,
we shall be alright.
But you,
you have begged from me twice before.

Then I think of my children, and you.
The warmth beside me,
kicking remorsefully inward,
flattening my contemptible arrogance,
my self-assured London brogue,
making me want to go back,
look him up, give him that meal,
whether it were drugs or booze.

People don’t beg for fun, do they?
My kangaroo court jumped,
not giving your third time
a fair hearing.
And now as I spit the words out here,
distancing myself from that ice wind.
I don’t feel good.
Maybe this is my last chance?