Homeless

I pulled up to the stop sign and there he was,

leaning on a pole with a sign against his chest.

I didn't think twice as I reached for my purse, so excited.

I was so excited about the five dollars in my wallet,

the five dollars I had forgotten I'd spent two hours before

on a frivalous vanilla chi latte in a fat white mug.

When I reached in there were only two ones.

Only two ones.

I pulled them out and put the window down.

He stepped closer.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "If I had more I would give it to you.

"This is all I have." I wanted him to believe me,

to believe that I wanted to do more.

"Oh mam that's OK. Thank you very much."

His eyes. His eyes. His eyes.

He stepped back,

leaned on the pole again,

the sign against his chest.

Can I give you a ride, I wanted to say.

Can I go get something for you, bring it back?

Can I tell you I'm sorry. Can I ask you a question?

Are you really homeless or

do you have a place to live

and this money is . . .

for something else?

Does it matter?

If you are

standing on this corner

leaning on a pole

with a sign against your chest,

looking at me

with those eyes, those eyes, those eyes,

does it really matter at all?

You need that two dollars at lot more than I do.

You need a lot more than that, more than I will ever need.

I hope you get it.

I hope we all do.