Almajeri Poem by Stephen Olufemi Omolara

With arm stretched in my front,
The extension of my arm you see,
Sparsely populated with coins,
The round little bowl I admire.
The only tool I know.
And every, this I wedge,
In me, the legion of hunger to fight.
They know I am here
But me, never they see:
The pimple on their comely faces;
The tares among their wheat.
Everyday many I become,
Never here but always here.
To every crime, my side, the fingers point,
Even when it seems to lack all points.
‘Cos me, no one to defend.
In the comfort of the street corner breed
Like roaches happily fed on crumbs of fallen bread.
Curl, in the dark on my stony beds,
Down town where we stay,
For this, I know I do not have to beg.
To reasons, they say, I never bow.
What is logic to a man seated upside down?
May more logical for me, your house to keep
When down and out my name is.
Why saying angry, I always am?
When you are foretold:
An hungry man is an angry man.