Walking before the church on a hot late summer day—a junkie stops a moment—a soft touch for a cigarette and some change approaches him

I can see from where I’m standing across the street this person is not glad to see the junkie come up to him—I can’t blame him—the junkie hit me up twice in the last week and a half and now I avoid him—which is how I wound up here on this side of the street—he wasn’t menacing or surly—but beseeching in the weakness that got him hooked in the first place and left him begging for a hit of somethinganythinganythingatall—

Yes I was revolted and yes I felt guilty and yes and yes and yes I turned and wandered away—reflecting on my broken idea of how I was there for anyone in need—and indulging my own hit of remorse and self-castigation—

Better reflect longer and harder—better come up with a better excuse



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