Pennies
2 cents—is that your generous offer to my empty cup? Are the 2 pennies going to help me out here on the street? I am not ungrateful—not at all. Beggars can’t be choosers—I know that too well. Just think about it. If someone offered you 2 cents, would you like it? No, you’d feel insulted, maybe even humiliated. Being in the raw, as on the sidewalk is hard enough.
Zero In the Sun
She didn’t arrive early at her site—Tuesday after the long holiday weekend might not be as good as she hoped. She sat on her crate just when the lunch crowd was walking by. It was 89 degrees and the sun was beating furiously. She thought she would faint. Her faithful cup and her sign were next to her. The sign was a little the worse for wear but she hadn’t had time to write a new one. Her thin arms were uncovered; she didn’t want the people to see that in places the skin sagged but she had nothing to cover them up with. She shrugged her shoulders and stretched them. It didn’t matter; unfortunately there was no way to turn back the clock. Her head needed protection. She bent down to get a newspaper from her bag. Hours went by. The cup remained empty. There was no food, either. How would it end—her little story? She shrugged her shoulders again. One more hour—if nothing happened by then, she’d leave.
Wait
She sat there, under something or other. Water kept coming down. The protection offered by the thing wasn’t enough. She was getting wet. The street was busy. People walked down, they walked up the street. No one saw her. If only someone! If only someone could. I can’t. I don’t know how anymore. Where is it—the food, the whatever that is needed? It is cold here. It is not comfortable.
Say it
Please say it! Be quick! Say it before I get tired—too tired to listen to you. What is the life that I am supposed to look forward to? What is the life that makes me laugh, that makes me want to go places? Where is it? You must know where it is. I don’t. I have ceased looking for that life—I have ceased looking, period.
The floor—the floor is your home. The floor is your refuge. It is where you spend your time, whatever is left of your life. You consume—you drink that liquid thing out of the can. You drink a lot of that liquid. It goes down your throat; you want another and another and then one more. The cans put you to sleep. Because of the cans you are not you. You are not the intelligent man you once were; you are hardly a person. You have become that can.
The floor—the floor is your home. The floor is your refuge. It is where you spend your time, whatever is left of your life. You consume—you drink that liquid thing out of the can. You drink a lot of that liquid. It goes down your throat; you want another and another and then one more. The cans put you to sleep. Because of the cans you are not you. You are not the intelligent man you once were; you are hardly a person. You have become that can.
Burning Up
It is hot; it is so hot that it burns. It is stifling. I can’t get the words out. There is no one to hear them; there is no one to listen. Sometimes I think I’ll die if I don’t say it, even if it’s to me and me alone. I have to express how I feel. I have to do it, or else I can easily explode. The outlet that was once mine is gone forever. It will never return. Now I have to make do with crumbs, emotional crumbs.
‘t
You Can’t
You cannot do it. You just cannot do it anymore. I see you, all stretched out on the floor. Where is your energy? Where is your life? I do not think you can or want to find it. I am scared for you. I am scared for the rest of your days.
There it is! Do you see it? It’s that one over there, the one with the green door. That was my home. I called it my bunker, my sanctuary. I was able to breathe when I lived there. I was free. The keys are in my pocket, but I can never go inside. My home is forbidden; it is a lost cause. I can never recover it. No matter what I do, it is gone. I have lost it forever. My heart is broken; no one can repair it, not even you.
The Man
His body is lean. The arms show that at one time he must have been a boxer or a bouncer, someone who can take care of himself. The muscles are good and strong. The man wears all black—black sweats, black T-shirt, black jacket. Only his baseball cap is white. He sits cross legged; a large bag is next to him. The noise of the traffic is all around him. It’s his—it belongs to him. The noise is part of his territory.
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