I watch people come and go.
It’s not a hobby but my humble profession.
This street has my name on it. Yes, there’s a painted sign on an electric pole.
It introduces me and advertises my business. It’s not the work I wish to do, but then how many have fun while earning a living?
I’m here from dawn to dusk, every day, all year round. Even sickness isn’t an excuse for not showing up.
It’s not that I’m a stickler for duty and honor. What drives me is the fear that I might die of hunger.
Choosing a prospective client is a tedious task, then convincing them to listen is a pain in the ass. Some walk by without a glance, while some slow down and still choose to pass.
But the ones who stop are a challenge. How much convincing will it take to loosen those purse strings?
If I want them to spend, then I must pitch a grand idea.
I start with God’s blessings, plentiful and benevolent. Then I switch my tune and offer them what I think they want to hear.
Not all stick around, some frown and leave, while others have that pitiful look in their eyes.
They are the ones who will ensure my food, water, and shelter.
Some are generous, silently doing their part, but some must be subtly encouraged.
I remove the dirty blanket and show them what’s missing – a pair of feet.
They shake their heads and dig deep into their pockets. Money falls into my bowl.
I then call out to newer clients.
God bless you with health. May God keep you well.
A handsome groom for you.
For you, a baby boy.
A promotion at work is what you’ll get.
Even a beggar must do his job well.
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