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A meal


I hope I didn’t make things worse.  I don’t know.  Perhaps.  What can be said about the gall bladder of a man in his state.  What secret harm might be done by the ingestion of  the two cheeseburger meal I just passed to him through my car window.  Will the sprite ease his throat? Coat it with coolness for the brief time that it takes him to suck it in through a straw? A freaking straw.  What will become of that straw, embraced greedily, needily by the weather beaten lips of this man? He looks like he might be praying, as I look back at him in my rear view mirror.  A little painting getting smaller of a blessed human having a meal bought by another human who’s ass is being carried home by leather seats, spurned along the progression highway by Japanese made engine.  This other human… the picture of health…. of success… moving forward… encapsulated by black-shiny….. blond hair blowing.

I think I might have made things worse.  I’m not proud. I thought (I knew) he might be hungry.  But you don’t see me still there, having a picnic with him on the small green space flanked by busy  byways of what success looks like.  You don’t see me there… I’m here.  You don’t see me holding his sign.  I think I may have made things worse, when I only wanted to give him a meal. I think I may have committed a crime.

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