Under the Bridge
They all pass me as I sit on the streets.
Waiting. Wondering. Is this one going to stop?
That one looked at me. No not anymore.
I hold up a sign usually the same one. Sometimes a different one if I find a better piece of cardboard.
Most of the cars think I'm lying. I'm a drunk. I'm addicted to something.
That's not the case for me.
I'm genuinely in need of help. I'm here literally in their face showing them, crying out for help.
But it doesn't seem matter today. That's why I've started to memorize the back bumpers of cars more than I do their headlights.
I know exactly what they think.
They see my crumbly sign.
They see my clothes. Probably obvious I don't even own more than one pair of undergarments. They see a grocery cart, I see a home.
That's just a piece of our differences I suppose.
They see torn up trash, I see resources. They see a piece of a box, I see a billboard.
They see my eyes and I see their fear.
Yet they're the ones within the safety of their expensive cars and homes.
And I'm the one fighting to survive under a bridge.