One beggar pulls his collar high,

spits out a laugh scraped thin and dry,

then turns to you—

scratching dirt from his nails, dragging words

like boots through gravel.

“Listen close now, brother,” he says.

“Down where the alleys fold like cracked knuckles,

where even the ghosts give wide berth—

there’s a bakery no one knows.

They pull bread hot as sin from the oven,

crust split wide like a wound.

They scrape char from the edges,

steam rolls thick as smoke.

You think they see you? Not a chance.

Slip round back, quiet as nightfall,

and find the dumpster—the holy grail.

The loaves are bruised, maybe broken,

but they taste of something real.

Don’t forget—one bite, that’s all you take.

Leave the rest for the rats or the gods or the lost,

but for us, one bite’s a king’s feast.”

Then he shoves his hands deep, shivers once,

and laughs again like he’s clawed the earth and won.