I wear slippers and scuff along the sidewalk. I ask for money, cigarettes, booze or food. My baggy, grey sweat pants are stained. I'm that young person sitting on the sidewalk asking for change. I pull a wagon or push a shopping cart containing all that I own. Oftentimes I smell. I talk out loud to nobody in particular without the luxury of a Bluetooth. The backpack and sleeping bag I carry are my home. I haven't shaved in days or sometimes months. I lost my house and then my car. A belt holds my ill-fitting jacket closed because the zipper is broken. I don't know when I last saw a doctor. Don't make contact with my rheumy eyes.
Don't.
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