his hands

bleeding and cracked

from his laboring work day of construction.

he dreamed of being an author.

to write books for kids like his daughter.

a bubbly ray of sunshine 

in a dirty city of grey 

but,

books don’t pay bills.

5 o’clock traffic greeted him with a devious smirk.

the smell of street dogs and diet coke elated him,

reeling his body to the stand.

the thin faux leather wallet laughed in his face.

four dollar bills remain.

two dogs.

two cokes.

without even a sip he notices her.

her skin, old and dripping off brittle bones.

her eyes, sad and cold after what’s she’s seen.

her lungs, tired and depressed from what she’s been through.

a woman alone,

a woman without a home.

he offers his food to her,

knowing he never wants to understand how she’s feeling,

never wanting to experience it.

it’s not pity.

it’s putting in good karma.

hoping that the long fingers of misfortune

don’t choose you.

picking you from millions

and flicking you to the other side,

but you’re almost there either way.

his stomach rumbles 

looking at his daughter’s street dog in his hand

as he rides in a lonely seat,

on a lonely train,

in a lonely city,

he’ll eat eventually.