Feed Up the Poor

We gave four pieces of Savannah’s finest pizza

To a hungry, homeless man tonight

For which people wait in line

Vinnie, Vinnie Van Go Go’s-

What a gourmand’s name delight!

Then we

Watched the hungry, homeless man shuffle away from East Bay Street

Just minutes later

After abandoning the pizza into the road

And tossing it with such nonchalance,

A drunken discus hurling,

Looking at us with a twinge of embarrassment (maybe?)

I asked him was it good?

A mumbled answer oh yeah, yeah,

Well God bless you and good night.


Pizza having tasted so good to us

Washing it down with a cold local brew IPA

After half a day of driving up 95

Slowly warming up to each other’s company

In the more relaxed cadences not afforded in everyday home life

And the drive, the drive of always getting there.


Symbolisms, stories, streets to be explored

Bull Street down to Forsyth Park tomorrow

Cathedral of St. John the Baptist

And Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home

Sauntering square to square,

Sharing ideas for new tattoos

He, an endless circle undivided around his bicep

Poetry divided

Father and son joined over literary devices

Me, a chimera’s bold lion head arching over my shoulder

Its snake tail down the middle of my lower back

Inspired by a Baudelaire prose poem-

We all have our own.


The  hungry, homeless man gave us so much more than

We gave him tonight-

More than we could have imagined,

For we laughed and laughed with the biggest belly laughs we had shared

In a long, long while

For several hours posthaste,

Him tossing that half eaten beloved pizza into East Bay Street for the pigeons

To enjoy upon awakening next morn

Us going back later to snap a picture of its lonesome, under appreciated remains

Lying forlornly in the street with an improper buriel.


O’, how had we sold the hungry, homeless man so hard

On that half-eaten NY style pizza,

Hand tossed and hand carried to its final resting place-

Sausage, Ham, Onions, Mushrooms and Peppers,

(It’s not too spicy hot is it? Oh, no, no)

On a delicious true as truly genuine NY-style crust,

Having carried it with us to LIVE MUSIC at Molly McPherson’s Scottish Pub

Down Congress Street to Bull

To East Bay looking for someone in need with whom to share its glorious deliciousness.


All he asked for was a sandwich.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, July, 2016

Just days after this episode with our youngest son, I rather coincidentally read Baudelaire’s prose poem “Beat Up the Poor” in Paris Spleen.  I’ll be a long time chewing on that one as well as our shared experience in Savannah and our reactions to it.  The title for this poem is thus derived.  Hope you enjoyed.  Thank you for reading.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s