by Lynne Curry

Messy Auburn Curls drives past, glances my way, frowns. Who spit in your Cheerios?

This corner, blisteringly hot today. Car exhaust fumes stink unless that’s me. Wet wipes in the Tesoro station, the best I can do.

Fat Bulldog’s mouth turns down, and he shakes his head and walks away. Do you see my legs lost fighting for you, while you sat on your couch stuffing your face?

Yesterday, heavy rain, no way to stay dry, filthy cars splashing muddy water. But four of us shared shelter under a tarp for the night, good conversation, good people.

Soft Face walks down the sidewalk toward me. Maybe today she’ll see I’m hungry? Even a dollar makes a difference. She stops a few feet short of me and crosses the street, her face twists as she avoids my gaze. Shot off legs aren’t contagious, sweetheart.

Banker Suit slowly rolls by in his Mercedes draping his arm out the window so everyone can see his Rolex. If he gave me five dollars, I could eat. Bet he thinks I should get up and work. Not without crutches, boy-o, and mine broke. If I flashed my knees, would he get it, or drive past?

It’s been a long day, but last night was worse. Why’d the cops have to take away our tarp and then push around my friends? City cleanup, they called it. Yeah, right.

They sure missed the blowing garbage on this corner. When they drove past, looking down their noses, did they see I swept it? Or do they think that the trash I piled against the building is my stuff?

I never thought I’d end up here. I had dreams. A pretty girl I loved. But like others seeking adventure, I wound up in Afghanistan. My duty, right? Then the IED. But worse than the IED, from which I could have recovered, was what my girl did.

“He was just a guy. It didn’t mean anything,” she said.

“It did to me.”

So here I am. Looking in the eyes of others for what I’ve lost.

Image: Middle East by Lara Jameson via Pexels