A man with wild hair and a tangled beard stands at the end of the exit ramp.
He carries a small sign of ripped cardboard,
written in a black marker,
that says only, “Please help” and “Homeless” in two crooked lines
with no punctuation or paragraphs or indentations.
No other symbols or words are needed.
The sign is worn and beaten and dirty with small spots of grease.
He looks much like the sign.
Near the sidewalk is a small box that he sits on when no cars are there.
A dog lies next to the box, mangy and flea-infested,
licking his paws, his ribs clearly visible through the skin on his belly.
Next to the dog is a black, plastic trash bag,
half-full of the homeless man’s only other possessions.
No further explanation is required.
He holds out his sign and his hand as the cars wait for the light to change.
All the drivers stare at their phones or straight ahead,
and try to ignore looking at him,
as if they are afraid that the stain might spread to them,
as if they are afraid of seeing him, of really seeing him.
Perhaps they think,
“If I give him money, he’ll spend it on booze or drugs.”
“He should get a job and earn his keep like everybody else.”
“He’ll always be homeless. No amount of money I give will prevent that.”
Each is thought in a tone both superior and hollow.
Then the light changes and the cars race away relieved.
However, one man stops and lowers his window and holds out some cash,
while the cars behind him beep their horns and raise their fingers and swear loudly,
“The light is still green!”
And the homeless man reaches forward hesitantly,
as if he fears the driver will pull the bills back as he gets nearer,
maybe it has happened before,
and he gently takes the money and bows gratefully
and he says, “God bless you, sir.”
That blessing is more potent than confession.
It doesn’t matter if you are the homeless man,
if you are the giver or the taker,
if you are the one that stopped or the one that drove away,
Or walked away, or held out your hand, or stuck up your middle finger.
We all struggle through life just trying to get by.
We are all human, we are all sinful, and we are all innocent.
Some of us have made good decisions and some of us bad.
We don’t know the background or the history of everyone we see.
Don’t assume.
Be the light for the dispossessed.
We don’t know their story.
Mark James Trisko has been writing poetry for his entire life, but after retiring recently, he heard his muses yelling loudly in the night begging him to work harder. He currently lives in Minnesota, with his beautiful wife, four wonderful children and eight above-normal grandchildren.