The man with the duck tape shoes looks so cold.
Even from up here, gazing from a luxurious apartment ,
Blankets and heat wafting around me,
I can see the holes and tears on his thin shirt.
Why does no one help him? Don’t they see him?
Why must the snow fall on his bare shoulders as
he shuffles through the dumpster, the trash water
loosening the glue of his make shift shoes. They
honk and they yell as he asks for their loose change,
and he squabbles for a ten dollar bill that falls from
a woman’s pocket. I open a box from underneath my
brother’s bed, his new shoes flashing back the lights of the room.
I walk, Jog, sprint down the hall way and explode out the hotel
door. I look, and call out. Run down the alley he was sorting trash
at. I'm wandering for minutes, hours. Tears roll down my cheeks and land in the dirty puddle on the
side walk. Why couldn’t I help him? Where is the man with the duck tape shoes?