I was reminded yesterday as I drove in the snow and cold of January in Minneapolis that no matter the weather or time of year someone will always be at a stop sign, looking for a handout, and much worse off than I will ever be. I came across this gentleman earlier in the season.
Winter's Eve
Half rain, half sleet
drops from above as worn
wipers squeak in protest,
leaving a drizzle thin arc.
A man with a sorry
stocking hat plastered
to his hair stands on a street
corner, head cocked, listening
to which whispers?
A wilted cardboard sign
held in ungloved fingers
fades into the gloom
with its scrawled plea.
Occasionally, cars stop
and arms emerge, wave a bill.
Clad in a torn jeans jacket
he clutches the money, smiles,
nods, slips on icy patches.
My car creeps forward, heater
humming. The cold and slush
an annoyance to me, not the icy
misery that dictates his day
the mere thickness of a glass pane
away. His watery eyes meet mine.
I have to believe it is help
that I hand through my window.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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