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Blood splattered on her hand
As she waited for his money
Counting just enough change
To warm himself up for the morning
A coffee
Revolted from the thought of whatever sickness he had
She ran to the back of the store
“Ugh, I’m not taking his moneyâ€
Attempting to sustain professionalism
I walked up to the gentleman and finished the transaction
He coughed
I couldn’t help but notice the red droplets of shame resting on his fist
His eyes said thank you for recognizing I’m still human
As the group assembled outside he followed
With a smile he started conversation
Only pausing here and there to cough
He told his story
How his family abandoned his existence
How the woods had become his home, his resting grounds
How he walked the streets for an escape from his outdoor prison, ironic
How he learned to appreciate living by fighting the urge to pass
My grandma would have told him, “This too shall passâ€
But he didn’t need words of wisdom, he needed an ear
He needed a friend to vent to
A perfect group of strangers written on like blank pages in his diary
He joked that he had the best view of the city
Cough
He coughed his inside sorrows into our hearts
He reminded me that our blood paints the same colors
He reminded us that everyone has a story
Too often the pages left dusted, unread
Because the cover doesn’t appease to the five senses
Since the streets were his only blanket
It didn’t add up that his heart hadn’t cemented as hard as asphalt
His image concreted into my memories sidewalk
The right side of his conscious hadn’t walked left
He hadn’t had much left
After all, misery pays no salary
And no jobs were given to a person without an address,
But no one without a job can get an address
Cough
He walked away that morning with 3 cigarettes
An Egg Mcmuffin, and a refilled coffee
He told us his warmth was more important than his hunger
He left us with a story
We left him with a group of friends, with hope
©Paris “Chi†Butler, “Venting Part Iâ€. 6/12/2013.
