by Jeff Glovsky
As I write, there is a noisy, messy creature tearing agitatedly through her homeless bag.
I want to take her photograph. I want to steal that bag and take time sifting through its contents: How did she become this way? Where did those belongings come from? Apparently of enough sentiment to her (tethered to some better days?), so that she wrestles and tears through them, agitatedly.
Hopeful still, she wakes each day. Maybe prays, finds some comfort, a warm cup of dignity…
I steal her soul, but it’s not exploitation.