He fades at the backdrop of our world. Our daily hustle drowns his image off our minds. Better things, you say, needs to fill our minds. The raggedy frame, the tragedy we met across the way. The one poverty knows by name. Limping on a bad leg or leaning by the poster ridden wall under a bridge. Eyes accustomed to hunger searching for pity. Pity, is the ghost of all worlds’ mega city. Pity is the horror of the rich’s consciences, the reminder of our frail humanity. The bowl in his hands is empty but some sunny day it’s filled with stipends. Oh the stipends he greatly adore and bless wouldn’t buy a dog’s food. But he greatly appreciates, though it’s below our dog’s breakfast, the most expensive breeds.