No one cares about my name though. They care about letting me know how filthy I am. They care about me moving or they’ll call the cops. They must not catch my homelessness. Hurry children. Cross the street to avoid the old, burly woman.
But this thin, shaking man seems to share my sadness – the droop forward in his shoulders, the listless way he wraps his bleeding hand into a small torn piece of velvet.
Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he’ll want to know my name?