What are you going to do when you are poor and alone?
Sleep in a box, on a dry riverbed, the city lights stars over your head. Or will you camp beside ATM machines, a cup in your numb hands, a filthy beard hiding your friendly face? Or sleep in doorways, the harsh night breeze chopping at your exposed knees, insufficient blanket to cover your freezing body.
And become invisible like a superhero, passer-by’s impervious to your craggily voice, your putrid aroma, your tangled limbs, undernourished and thin. Some will glance only to see what they ignore, and a few will pity you, fill your cup with loose copper and with all your might, you will thank them. Teeth loose and black, skin hard and dull, hands rough and cracked. “Thanks mister fo’ the bit.”