The 24-hour store
has it all,
even
a 24-hour beggar 

on the curb outside
with a cup and a plea
for my spare change 
or butts or attention.

I always give
a little something — not a lot,
for I have my own
problems and needs;

whether he needs my money
for drugs or food,
it’s not my place to judge
his desire.

I might ask someone for a dollar
or a butt on one of these coming
hard days.  I might.  No one knows 
what they’d do when pressed that hard.  

Being in a 24-hour store
this time of night reminds me
that I’ve got my own wants and needs
that drive me to such hours — 

right now, for instance, this store
is within walking distance of the house,
sells smokes, has an ATM,
and everyone knows me here — 

it’s almost Paradise, as
the in-store music is reminding me,
and I almost resemble the angel
with the flaming sword

who won’t let sinners in,
as the beggar’s eyes
are reminding me;
it’s all too almost Biblical for words,

and 4:30 AM
is the wrong time of day
not to pay attention
when things get Biblical,

so before I go in
I hand him my last buck
and my last butts.  I light one 
for him, even,

my silver Zippo
blazing higher than normal,
threatening (for a second)
to burn all four of our hard-cupped hands.