Snap: the Lygon Street Beggar
As we walked from the cool cinema
to the hot street, he surprised us totally,
the little Aboriginal man with the wildest eyes.
His left hand grasped my wifešs, his right hand mine.
He began to wail: I need money to something
train something Wollongong something
wail wail wail. I recognized him
skinny, badly dressed, hair a grey frizz
from the paintings of Arthur Boyd.
From my pocket emerged a two-dollar coin,
to take which he had to release us.
The wailing stopped. We made our escape.
Watching was the regular vendor holding out
The Big Issue, newsprint monthly
of Australiašs struggling underclass.
We ask: did you see all that?
'Yes, hešs here a lot, makes a killing,
Išve seen him with a wad of notes.
Watch him running, therešs a cop nearby.'
We bought the Big Issue (three more
and I can go homeš), recalling as we did
the Big Issue play at Trades Hall,
in which this man said hešd played himself.
We began to remember him, broken teeth, nice eyes.
That was hard at first, telling your own story
in front of strangers, but it became a great thing
for them all. And the excellent help they had
from the two professional dancers,
remembered well by my wife, but
scarcely by me. So home, our beggar
already receding into a wailing image,
mythic as Išd always thought
Arthur Boydšs Aboriginals were.
Wednesday 2 January 2008
Max Richards
Melbourne
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