I still think about this man. He showed me where he had also been bitten by the brown recluse spider. Where the infection was boring a hole into his arm. Turning flesh into puss.
And I still charged him.
This poem is a reminder. I think of this man every time I feel my humanity slip.
He said his daughter died
That the service would be on Halloween
That she was bitten by a spider
while they lived on the streets
His jacket is too big for him
He is thirsty and wants a soda
I charge him for it
$1.60 for carbonated orange juice
I feel nothing until November
when, while standing at dawn
in a field
I realize I am cold
That I paid money to be cold
That I am in a field
in the mountains
And I charged him for a soda
the day before
he put his daughter in the earth