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White pants.

I call it the half-life shuffle.

When the meds are hiding in all the bags not to be found easily.

And the white haired ladies timidly make their way past his wheel barrow and shopping cart and puddle of pee.


Eyes downcast--his and theirs.

Minds swirling, chaos and fear--his and theirs.

They shuffle along their day with destinations aimed to ease the tedium.

Him to the corner and back.

They to shop for white pants and trinkets.

All will be thrown out in due time.


He tells me he cycles through everything he owns every four days.


He tells me he has a son. A daughter. 16 and 17. I don’t ask him where.


He tells me today is going to be better. Blue skies, mama. Yes, yes, it is I say. Wishing with all my heart that that may be true.

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