Black man walking on the side of the road. He's wearing all the clothes he owns in the world. Dirty crusty dredlocks obscure his face. I say he's wearing all his clothes, a heavy coat, and what looks like two pairs of pants. I've seen him a couple of times on this street. Walking blankly and fixedly, on his way to somewhere, some purpose to his walk. Even the pedestrians walking up the street from the aids clinic avoid him, that may be a good idea in their case. The rest of us have no excuse, we can't catch homelessness from him like mono. Still I wonder what choices he made to get him where he is today. What choices were made for him?

Which ones were just left up to chance.

Where did I go right so I didn't end up as he did? How do I know that I haven't already set wheels in motion that will lead me down that path eventually?

I wonder about people I see. Like the guy that pushes the shopping cart up and down our street at work every day. It's piled high with bags of cans like an overloaded pack mule. He pushes it up the hill, his legs stretched back behind him and his arms straight ahead, his head looking between his biceps. Always pushing that cart up the hill like some modern version of sysiphus whether it's 30 degrees or 105. Though his work isn't futile, it's only barely so. Two dollars for a hefty cinch sack of Dr. Pepper cans doesn't seem like much but it may be a lot when you have nothing. I doubt it though, two dollars is still two dollars. Although paper boys get flung off mountains for two dollars.

I always have the intentions, .... perhaps too careless thoughts, of winning the lottery. Driving past that old man with the shopping cart and giving him a coke can full of thousand dollar bills. I think the chances of that are pretty slim.

"If only I could win the lottery, I would make what's left of that guys life easier."

" If only lunch hadn't been 14 hours ago, I would give this big mac to that guy laying on the bus bench."

" If only I had...."

What? If I only had what? Always excuses. Always reasons why I can't do something for someone else unless I just feel like it.

I don't mean giving a friend a nickel for a baby ruth in the vending machine. Or helping someone with the door when they have a box full of elephant shit, land-mines and AC/DC records. What happens to us that we become cynical to other people. And why does it take something to affect us until we are willing to reach out just a little bit further to someone we don't know. Why can't you make eye contact with that guy with the sign on the corner?

He might see me see him then.

Then I'll feel bad.

Then I'll have to do something about it.

Blindly driving my truck on my way to work. To the job that i hate sometimes. That I have to work absurd amounts of hours to meet deadlines. That I yell and scream about in my head that no one knows what the fuck they're doing here.

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That I would probably love to have, if my alternative was pushing a Wal-mart cart up and down a hill for the rest of my life. Looking for the glint of a shiny coke can in the grass that someone's kid tossed out of the back window of the car.

I don't care about those guys standing on the street corner with a sign. I care about the guy pushing that cart. Just trying to survive another day.