Addicted to Michael

Just a free write on empathy...

What would you do with a homeless addict

who overdoses like it’s a hobby?

Would you give him a cent, a nickel, a dime, a gram of poison and future remorse?

Would you notice him, lying in a bush

 mother nature burying him in blankets of polluted snow…

Would you call his name, sir, Michael, excuse me, is everything ok?

Would you even know his name?

Would you offer him help that you know deep down

 your taxes cannot afford?

Would you educate the man and tell him he is worth more?

Would you feed him, clothe him, and send him away

walking in a pair of your old leather shoes?

Did you even like those shoes?

Why did you still keep them?

What would I do with a homeless addict

who overdoses like it’s a hobby?

I might sit by him, or lay by him, and dig my elbows into the fragile ice.

I’d breathe deep the rat poison off of his tongue and salivate for more

I might feen off of his forgotten failures

and relapse into a remembrance of my own

of an addict

a lost coin in the silver snow.

Michael and I might have a past,

a shared pair of leather shoes.

Worn, faded, but stronger than hell.

Walking us in and out of another

overdose.