THE OLD MAN WITH HIS PLATE

The beggar in my street
The subject of my hate
An eyesore I felt he was
The old man with his plate

Sunshine or rains, chill or heat
Never had I pity for his fate
Yet he had that toothy grin
The old man with his plate

Mosquitoes crowned his head
Flies and insects were his mates
He shared his food with the dogs
The old man with his plate

He blessed one and all
Many pitied his state
Wrinkles ran all over his face
The old man with his plate

The crowd gathered one day
Around the subject of my hate
The old man was no more
Remained only the empty plate

He was a beggar indeed
But never stole other's plate
Felt I missed him
Put a coin in his empty plate

Life moves like a river
Stops and starts at every gate
Life moves on, so did
The old man with his plate

... Suresh M Iyer