There’s an old man who stands on the corner at the intersection exit ramp off the expressway. He holds a sign which says “please help.” He most likely does not have health insurance. I don’t know if he has a home. He is shaking. I don’t know if he has a home.

I have a purse; I’m only keeping my hair long right now because haircuts are expensive and if my hair is long then when I carry a purse I don’t look like a fifteen year old boy who stole a purse.

My little sister has my promise that for as long as I am alive she will always have cooking oil and salt. Then again, she also has a kitchen. I don’t know if the man on the corner has a kitchen.

I have a purse made of skin and there are convenience stores on every corner because somebody cut down the forests to build them.

I am closer to homelessness than I am to being able to afford to pay for a home in any city in this country.

I also have friends who are worth waking up in the morning for.