When I was a little girl I pressed my nose against the glass of my dad’s old Volkswagen as we passed under bridges in the city. I puffed great smokey blasts of fog to draw little hearts and “hellos” in as the sleeping men tossed in their bags.
“Dad, why don’t we help them?”
“They have to help themselves first.”
There was a woman beneath the bridge today snapping pictures of our homeless communities. Preserving our tents and bags in rough black and white photos for exhibit.
“Don’t you want to help yourself?”
I hear they feed you in jail.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
And Friday Fictioneers courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
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