The homeless man clutched within his sun bleached hand a yellowed photo of a woman who might have been his mother.His entire worldly possessions lay near his battered shoes. His past, his present, perhaps his future. A tattered journal‘s pages rustled in the wind, speaking memories of days long past. A small bag of faded clothing, a frayed sleeping bag. A barren coffee cup, which might have once held hope.
I watch the front doors of the shelter swing open. The drab building stands in stark contrast against the amber sun, as it slips silently into twilight. The homeless filter in, as they had done the day before, the week before, the month before.
I step into the concrete building where the nations’ forgotten hoped for a hot meal, and a good nights sleep. My gaze falls on men and women as they quietly line up to take their supper. No words were spoken. Perhaps, there was no need.
