She says,
“I’d see him in front of the 7-Eleven
with a paper cup
jingling with coins, singing
‘Please, some change
for coffee?’
and I’d drop
dimes & quarters
and a smile if I could spare it.”
I listen to her
with a smile on my own, remembering
cold rainy days,
slogging to the store
for my evening sixpack,
and there he was,
bearded, bedragged, crusty,
stinking of morning
Wild Irish Rose
looking at me
with hope
in his yellow eyes,
with one sad work for me:
“Please?”
He stood between me
and a door leading
to a dry warm place
with succulent feasts
stacked upon shelves
and an army
of gleaming bottles
standing sentry;
they tempted and invited me.
This drunken bum
looked into my eyes
into a place inside me;
flames of fear danced briefly
within, until doused
by the icy water
of indifference; the only words I said:
“Please step aside.”
I brushed past the ragged stranger
into my own sanctuary,
I walked the aisles, and piled a cart heavy
with the grist of a life of comfort;
sweetly fragrant
loaves of bread,
heavy shrink-wrapped meats;
and six brown bottles
of liquid peace.
Stepping back into the chilly damp,
I locked eyes
with the ragged stranger
once again.
No words passed between us,
only a steely glare;
just five words burned
along the edges of my mind:
“I am not like you.”
