DAY 27- 5/14

Last one… I think






Walter

Leave 30th Street Station with Starbucks
and head to the food truck operated by a white haired
Greek man with albino chinchillas for eyebrows, and a
wife that doesn’t speak English, unless it’s on the menu.
But she can cook a steak, egg, and cheese hoagie on a long roll
that would make Kate Moss want a second serving.

I see the beggar.
A duct-taped trashbag at his side.
The layers of clothing make him appear able to be peeled.
An onion of a man, who, the more you remove, the
more your eyes water.

My eldest uncle could have been him… if he had been unlucky.
They probably went to school together.
He’s probably somebody’s father…probably a Walter—
he looks like a Walter.
Cast aside like an annoying insect for his illness—
he shakes like a virgin at first touch…but he doesn’t stop—
then I notice the silver band on his wrist that binds him- a shackle stamped with three letters
P.O.W.

Avoid contact, keeping my head low as if in prayer-
(Praying that he won’t see me)
and my hands in pockets, pressing my keys against my leg,
so that they won’t be confused with loose change.

“Spare any change,” he asks, as he extends a beaten Styrofoam 7-11 cup.

I walk on…

I order my food and my palette is revolted as I chew and swallow my recent actions.
I break into a run towards 30th street.
Sprinting—an admittance of guilt in Philly.

And I am guilty… Walter has been shooed away like a pigeon seeking crumbs—