The hollowest sunken-eyed 90 pound
forsaken waif, kicking papers under the night’s dim street lamps, is looking for repose, every bit as much as you or I, loaded with sins and hope.
It is wrong. It’s wrong, to walk by without a look at him or her who could have been you or I, servicing another ghost in a dark corner for smack, or any other pulsating firefly dream or cloud of illusory hope.
Up ahead He Calls
Perched
on a Cross
with Dismas at his side
SH
Catholic Critique 