While maggots squirm and flies

dive down for scraps of food piled here

in rusted buckets,

the busy pier

ignores two boys

grabbing at a crust of bread

or a bone to eat.

No one saw them sneak

along the wall,

or heard the squeak

of the bucket’s lid

as the thrown out food

was shuffled through

and their skinny fingers

fought among the flies.

As I watch them make their way

past egg shells and shake

away the food that lingers

on a piece of food,

their eyes see mine

and for a moment we share

our getting caught:

that sudden flare

of rushing blood.

They rise,

their mouths stuffed

and stare at me.

I feel the flash

of their frightened eyes

as they back away

then dash

like flies

from a swatter.