On an Island

A starving man on a lonely island in the middle of a city finds nourishment in passerby's smile and small offering.

     On an island between east and west, he stood in the glow of the traffic lights and the headlights of those who pass by in the pre dawn morning. His canvas tennis shoes, women’s size ten. Toes missing. Grime caked feet stick out. His clothes hang on an emaciated frame. The bottoms of his pant cuff reaching mid-calf. The man stands in thirty eight degrees with only a dirty baby blanket over his head. This mad Jesus with his greasy curly brown beard and blue eyes, paces his concrete and asphalt sanctuary, sermonizing to the employed, the well fed and the sane. This savior of Stockton blvd raised his arms, not in supplication and not quite to the sky, but at a forty five degree angle. His fists clenching and unclenching, he yells “Shut it! Shut it, you apple pie fuckers! She told me about you!” at his unseen tormentors. The sad messiah then walked to the end of island and locked eyes with a young black lady who locked her doors but pushed a crumpled five dollar bill out the top of her window. The homeless young man smiled and the young lady smiled back just as her light had changed. He stooped for the money when it was safe and then hobbled across the intersection and made his way through the bushes behind the Taco Bell. He warmed himself in the undergrowth while he waited for it to open.