Homeless

You know, a homeless person is also a person, people call him homeless,

As if a homeless person is a separate kind of person.

But we are all made of bones and flesh that tend to break.

I'm not a poet, I'm just expressing my thoughts on this piece of paper.

He lies exhausted on the cardboard, clutching a dolar in his palm.

The wheels of cars are racing along the sidewalk, the dust, fighting back, lies in an even layer.

He was asleep, curled up, wheezing could be heard from there.

I couldn't help but notice him as I passed by.

I greeted him, got down on one knee.

Hey, friend, are you alive? I asked him.

The homeless man angrily replied, "Get out, dog."

But he's partly right.

I want to help you.

To which he replied with eyes with red pupils.

I handed him a loaf of bread, I was taking him home for dinner, take it...

did you come to poison him? Get out, go your own way.

The homeless man jumped up, waving his arms to the sides, driving me away.

I wanted to help him without understanding anything.

I left $20, putting it in his pocket.

He followed me with his eyes for a long time.

I was walking home, mentally remembering the plot, but he is someone's son and where is his mother.

Biting off a loaf, as in childhood, gnawing through a slice.

I was in a hurry for dinner, my wife will be angry.