Mendicant

The presents
he gives are his payment
for sins real and imagined,
and his mark of generosity.
'Look,' he says,
'here, where I lack.' This lack
is his martyr's palm.

That, and the stories he carries
with him, just under his skin,
one corner always flapping loose,
to taunt,
to tease,
to tempt you in.

Beware. The tragic hero,
mendicant, purveyor of his own past,
dealing most dangerous drug of all:
romance of someone else's pain,
his pain.

Whispers of heartbreak pass through his lips,
his tender childish lips,
while his fingers pluck,
and his eyes sing
'Hallelujah'
to one more king.

Enamoured of his tragedy, he pulls
and pulls
and pulls you in.