City of Brotherly Love

On the hottest of days 
in the sweltering summer of Philadelphia— 
when city streets sizzled like bacon with 
paved heat and the smothered air 
hovered like dragonflies and was too heavy to breathe
and even I who rarely perspire 
was dripping rivers down my back, like a popsicle on a stick;
even my inner thighs were wet— 
we passed a young woman 
and her infant daughter 
whose face was red, and swollen like the Delaware 
from the bites of thirsty mosquitoes swarming 
in the dampness, and from tears. 
            Do you know where I can buy 
            milk for my baby? the woman pled. 
Visitors ourselves, we had no idea, 
no answer to give. But you, feeling 
compassion, reached in your matted pocket 
to retrieve ten dollars, to which she replied: 
            No, please, I don’t want your money 
            Only milk for my child. 
The mother had already begun to cry. 
Seeing this, you gave her another ten. 
And she hugged you there, like hunger, 
on that hot street, in the city where they 
say there is brotherly love. I was 
proud of you and your generosity. 
Sometimes I pass people begging, 
as I’ve finished shopping in the mall— 
and may stop, if I happen to have cash. 
But too often I notice the newish 
running shoes or the dog 
that looks well fed, and pass on by 
with the shake of my head. 
Then at night, I kneel and beg by my bed.