(found in the place where the man sitting on the sidewalk saw them, watched them holding hands, declared them to be in love)
How now Marcia?
There’s a homeless man. I pass him every day – from home, back to home. Everyday.
I talk about books. I pay thousands of dollars to talk about books with people who have dedicated their lives to talking about books.
There is a homeless man. I pass him every day. He probably shivers at night or when it gets cold. He probably shivers. I’ve only said hello once or twice.
I read books, mostly – when I’m not playing video games or talking angrily to walls or looking down onto a sidewalk through an 8th story window and wondering if there had ever been a person who looked down on me from an 8th story window and thought “how did the people get so small all of a sudden?”
There is a homeless man. I only know him as a homeless man. You will only know him as a homeless man, and it’s because I’m too afraid to introduce myself. But he probably shivers at night or when it gets cold.
I write books. Most of them, whether they’re good books or not, are about how I’m worried people don’t like me or why she left or really just why, really. I write books and wonder how my heart got so broken because it probably broke a really long time ago.
But there is a homeless man. Should I give him something? A sandwich. Say something? “Hi.” But what would that accomplish beyond making myself feel better. Is there anything I can do that isn’t done to make myself feel better? There is something wrong with me, I feel.
I imagine things, desperate things, to believe in. I dream of someone who once held my hand. I dream of building a restaurant in the countryside and selling people pizza. Singing songs about how much I love her. It was her idea. Now I dream it. To be in the countryside, away from the streets and noise and the dreams of her.
There is a homeless man. I pass him every day. He sits in front of a church. The apartment next door to mine is empty. Has been for five months.
Yet, Marcia, there is a homeless man. And what do we do about it?