Poem: To All of the Men Who Call to Me and Ask for Money

"young lady!"
you exclaim on the street to
me, not knowing that i
prefer "ma'am", why is it
always "young lady?" to you i am fourteen,
fifteen, seventeen, nineteen
and why are
you always middle aged males? and you're
always tall, always the same, same voices,
same echoes in my head singing the
same lines

you think i must have money,
judging by my coat ($4 at goodwill)
or my bag of groceries ($5.03),
but the truth is you burn a hole in
mind head instead of
my pocket: should i give you
my $1.13? or my three cents? or,
most of the time, the crumbled remains of
paper that line my pockets?

it's a shame that so many people
with so many more dollars to their names than i,
just walk on by