Scoff

by George Anderson

In tattered rags
he taps
at our front door
3 or more times
during winter.

Head slung low
cascading white beard
he asks,
'Can I please have
a small bite to eat.’

Silently,
in the porch
we watch him
scoff a sandwich
or slurp leftover soup.

Then, with a pleasant
but gruff ‘thank you’
he is gone,
a nameless, homeless man
tramping up the street
through the skeleton wind.