with blonde hair standing on
the street corner
at the light every morning
holds up his sign.
he could be anyone's son.
he's there every day,
rain or shine.
wind or cold.
snow or ice.
he glides easily from
car to car waiting for a window
to roll down,
for a dollar or two.
there is no shame,
no look on his face that
defines madness,
or illness.
he's just a boy, not quite
a man,
a slender reed of life
on the corner, blue eyed
and young.
his life seems at an end,
not beginning.
he makes you nervous.
with his persistence.
how he looks you in the eye.
a part of you wants him
gone.
wants him home, or at work.
with his family.
anywhere but here
making you feel guilty
about something you don't
even understand.
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