You dont know about me, because you've never looked. Or maybe you have looked, but what you see is just too gruesome for your taste. In your world, it's easiest just to pass us by, walk resolutly ahead without even a backward glance. Its easier just to train your eyes to a spot just above my head, rather then look me in the eye. I'm invisible to you.
But we are here. We sit at every corner, sleep on most doorsteps, hang our heads upon every stair case in the city. You may have even seen my cup, filled with only two coins and a button. Not that its meansing seems to have registered with anyone, the expectations lost to straight walking zombies who rush by even little me for fear that poverty is infectious. That maybe my disease can be caught, the disease of cold, hungry, alone, dirty, sad. The idea of stopping to take a notice of me is like throwing yourself at TB patients. Its a risk no one would be willing to take.
Its not so easy finding a place to sleep, a shut eye by the garbage cans or a minute of peace in a doorway, only to be roused again and forced to move on. "Move on now," they say, like we have somewhere better to go, "Can't be hangin round here."
But there is nowhere else to go. And as I count my ribs with my fingers, so dieing for something to do, a motive to live, a reason to survive, you walk by. Maybe you dont see it when you look in the mirror, but you are full of life. There's something in your step that all my street friends lack. As i walk like a shadow through the alleys, you stand tall and strong, stride confidently down the street, unaware of the sickness and hunger around you, because you are perfect.
Now I sit next to the steamy window of a McDonalds store, those sweet aromas wafting through the door as it swings open and shut, I can't help but wonder what its like to feel full. To not know the ache in my sides and the dryness in my throat.
A young girl walks by, her hair tied in a blue ribbon, blonde locks falling down her back. Her eyes are deep brown under the layers and layers of protection her mother has wrapped her in, coats upon hats upon mittins. She stomps through the piles of snow, squealing with delight as white flakes catch in her hair.
She reaches the place where I sit. The girl stops, cocking her head to one side, like a little puppy. I've never felt so much like a person in my life. The girl can see me! She sees my hands and my feet, my hair and my face. She's looking right at me! And the girl smiles. She reaches forward and gives my knee a pat, as if to say, "Hang on in there," though she speaks no words. Turning away, she skips back to her mother's side, fitting her small mitted fingers between her mothers warm fingers. She turns back to me only once, and waves a small hand.
