Letter to a stranger:
It’s a busy day
You’ve got places to go, people to see
Or at least that’s how the cliche goes.
You make strategic hurried steps
Sorrily bumping into an old lady
Who’s trying to find her way in an unfriendly city.
That’s when you see him sitting underneath that building;
There’s really nothing distinctive about it.
He’s fidgeting with his shirt
which he’s probably been wearing since last tuesday
Smeared with spots of tomato juice
And an amorphous oil stain.
And he sits and plays with his nails-
An shoddy imitation of a bread knife.
You press pause on your life
To enter his
There’s an exchange of words
But i’m too far to read your lips.
You dash off to a store close-by
You soon return to his side
bearing a footlong sandwich and coffee.
You wrap up the conversation,
surely the first proper human interaction he’s had since morning.
You rise up and set off,
Your steps more planned out this time.
You may not think much of it;
someone thought you were a hero today.