Courtney Webb

He stands by the side of the road,

A large piece of cardboard held up in his hands.

Scrawled on with dark crayon – Tarps Wanted.

Below a long laundry list of his needs, the story

of his life, listed in crayon.

He stares straight ahead, eyes blank.

And it rains.

The chief executive strides by holding a large plaque

for something he is about to name,

in his honor for the millions spent.

He stares out from his Ray bans, blankly and is gone.

It rains.

The housewives chatter on and on about their upcoming

vacations, travel trailers and room additions.

They babble incessantly about their children and grandchildren.

They have no thought about anything else.

It rains.

The homeless guy is parked in front of the taco place. Grey and dirty.

He is leaning forward so that his head is down.

Is he alive or dead? I wonder to myself.

I place my order. Mr. Wheelchair stirs. Ah, he is alive. He gropes around for

awhile and finally sits up. I ask the counter guy to sell me an orange soda.

I take it out to the guy, he thanks me and asks for money.

He is dirty but I can tell, he is younger than me and used to be good looking.

Once.

It rains.

I stare out at the tarp and plastic tent village behind the hotdog stand.

I take package water over and leave it, knowing full well, it won’t be enough.

It rains.

He sends the rain on the just and on the unjust. (Matthew 5:45.)

True, he does.

And it rains.