On this day,
We stood in the queue
masked, one metre apart.
Covid still lingered.

You stood before me,
bent over the trolley,
Holding fast the handle.
In it, a loaf of bread, a tin of something.

Your fingers gnarled,
Skin a parchment,
Your veins wrote the script
Of a hard life, almost spent.

I stood, a trolley over full
with more than I needed,
Somethings I may never use.
All bought, just in case.

You moved to the checkout
Counted the coins one by one,
Placed your buys in a cloth bag,
and shuffled to the door.

At the community collection,
You pulled out the can, placed it among
the meagre donations.
Walked away, each step slow and laboured.

I unloaded my trolley,
Embarrassed at the pile.
Paid the bill and stood apart
to pack my bags.

Time to think, to reflect.
You gave so much of so little,
The question,
What little can I give of so much?

I halted at the donation,
Pulled out a bag and laid it among the rest.
Your tin of beans stood out.
I felt enriched and humbled.

On this day, I learnt the joy of giving.

Leela Gautam