Buggy full,
in line behind a man
with dirt on his clothes,
work boots,
and four little kids,
tangled hair,
grass stains,
mismatched socks.
He puts four pairs of shoes,
packets of socks,
pants,
shirts
on the belt.
Bending my head,
I look at
my own shoes,
white slip-ons
from this store.
My kids,
Nike everything.
It’s my choice.
I don’t think it’s his.
“Can I hold them?”
a little voice asks.
He hands her
those pink shoes.
She beams.
He ruffles
her already tangled hair.
On the corner,
a woman
with a sign
Anything will help.
I remember
when I was a teenager,
my friend and I
snuck $20
into a homeless man’s sleeping bag.
We crawled up
while he was snoring,
tucked it in,
ran off giggling.
We saw him
cross the street
to the corner store,
leave with a bottle
in a brown paper bag.
We looked at each other,
shrugged,
whatever gets you
through this life.
My own father,
not homeless,
drinks bottles
out of paper bags.
A family.
New baby.
He won’t stop crying.
Mom says,
he’s probably hungry,
and I don’t have his food.
Rummaging in our closet,
I find the formula samples,
give her what we have:
bottles, ******* diapers.
He wet his clothes.
We don’t have spares.
That night,
I buy onesies
for our closet,
just in case.
My mom used to sell
these expensive clothes.
She had some left over.
We took them
to the Dream Center,
set up a fitting room,
steamed them,
hung them on racks.
Women came in,
worn out, tired.
Tried outfits on.
Left with bags full,
smiling,
feeling confident.
One woman hugged me,
tears wetting my shirt,
“Thank you.
I haven’t felt this beautiful
since before my cancer treatments.”
She lost everything
because of medical debt.
Why do some of us
struggle
and some of us
prosper?
Surely it’s not always
the choices we make.
Because if it is…
explain
the children
in line.
The baby
in wet clothes.
The woman,
cancer free,
and homeless.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 11:14 AM UTC
Buggy full,
in line behind a man
with dirt on his clothes,
work boots,
and four little kids,
tangled hair,
grass stains,
mismatched socks.
He puts four pairs of shoes,
packets of socks,
pants,
shirts
on the belt.
Bending my head,
I look at
my own shoes,
white slip-ons
from this store.
My kids,
Nike everything.
It’s my choice.
I don’t think it’s his.
“Can I hold them?”
a little voice asks.
He hands her
those pink shoes.
She beams.
He ruffles
her already tangled hair.
On the corner,
a woman
with a sign
Anything will help.
I remember
when I was a teenager,
my friend and I
snuck $20
into a homeless man’s sleeping bag.
We crawled up
while he was snoring,
tucked it in,
ran off giggling.
We saw him
cross the street
to the corner store,
leave with a bottle
in a brown paper bag.
We looked at each other,
shrugged,
whatever gets you
through this life.
My own father,
not homeless,
drinks bottles
out of paper bags.
A family.
New baby.
He won’t stop crying.
Mom says,
he’s probably hungry,
and I don’t have his food.
Rummaging in our closet,
I find the formula samples,
give her what we have:
bottles, ******* diapers.
He wet his clothes.
We don’t have spares.
That night,
I buy onesies
for our closet,
just in case.
My mom used to sell
these expensive clothes.
She had some left over.
We took them
to the Dream Center,
set up a fitting room,
steamed them,
hung them on racks.
Women came in,
worn out, tired.
Tried outfits on.
Left with bags full,
smiling,
feeling confident.
One woman hugged me,
tears wetting my shirt,
“Thank you.
I haven’t felt this beautiful
since before my cancer treatments.”
She lost everything
because of medical debt.
Why do some of us
struggle
and some of us
prosper?
Surely it’s not always
the choices we make.
Because if it is…
explain
the children
in line.
The baby
in wet clothes.
The woman,
cancer free,
and homeless.
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