lesson on a traffic island

she looked as though she belonged there
fingernails dirtied blackened hair in bangs too long
her clothes originally punk turning into the street uni
of the downtrodden homeless

well past the waif state shy of womenhood
bleeding but not butchered
her shoulders begining to sag
reality stooping her now

the beams picked out her sign
held out a forlorn silent plea
hungry and broke written in black
i slowed and handed her a sawbuck

briefly i pondered the end it might have
food, drugs or a pimp
did it matter to me?
was the value reduced by the product it bought

i thought more on that as i wove through the town
the values in the giving not what the money might down