My daughter steps past him
not seeing him
But I do
I see the huddled form
not much more than the
ratty moving blanket
He’s wrapped in
against the odd Florida chill
My daughter steps past him
not smelling him
but I do
When he rises and staggers
standing between the dumpsters
to pee the reek of
urine and alcohol and unwashed
carries on the breeze
My daughter steps past him
not hearing him
But I do
The hacking glob of sputum
padding of his bare feet
hand thudding on the
wall holding him upright
echo through the parking lot
My daughter steps past him
asks me
Have you seen him?
The homeless guy, with the ragged
blanket?
Really skinny, has dreads?
I give him a dollar most mornings,
but today he wasn’t here
Yesterday either …
My daughter opens the car door
strokes her baby’s hair
Have you seen him?
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