To the man outside rite aid.

To the man outside rite aid.
First of all, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that you're there on the hard cement, pants ripped and hand callused from being outstretched in begging all day long. That you are the one rattling your cup full of meager earnings and beseeching the conscience of every passerby.
I'm sorry that you're there, and I'm here. Comfortable and satiated, with enough pocket change to fill a preschooler's swear jar.
Because it just awful and it doesn't make any sense. We should both be here.
But as I walk past you on a shabbos afternoon, pockets free of random change I instinctually avert my gaze. I couldn't possibly look you in the eye when I had nothing to offer. If guilt had a form it would be you, face rugged and unshaven, sitting and imploring.
But then I imagine all the people who must pass by you everyday, looking in every which direction - averting, avoiding. I wonder how awful that must feel. Because not only has your bank account been depleted, so has your humanity.
And to the dear man outside rite aid,
I see you.
I hear you.
And as I walked by you today and simply smiled and said hi, when you smiled back I know you saw me.
Because pocket change aside, we're both human and you deserve to be seen.
Hello, dear man outside rite aid.
I don't know how often you get to hear that.
Hello.