“That was nice of you” said
the middle-aged black
man sitting to my left.
Wearing a blue Carhartt-lookin
jacket, face worn-wrinkled young,
kinda surprised, kinda skeptical
kinda curious.
“It was kind of you.” I to he who gave
a single dollar to the woman worn, left
foot limp, grey Hanes sweatshirt
not warm enough for tonight asking
for a dollar or a sandwich.
“I had an apple. I never give money.
But today I had an apple and I felt
kind enough.” More
nutritious than the peanut butter
oatmeal granola food-processed remains
aluminum-wrapped. For my
hunger hard-work earned, skeptical of the indigent
respect lost to the indolent, the alcoholics
beggars of trust
of whom there are too many
too commonly known for invading
the convenience of street corners
and L-trains, while I try to forgive
myself for wondering why
they have time to badger me but not
work like me.
Remind myself
no story’s the same — not all are addicts lost
to idleness that lead them to this lifelessness, remind myself
how I hate hypocrites and would just as quickly
ask you not to stereotype as I
stereotyped this woman
when she asked for money
before food.