People Don't Know Shit

I glanced at a familiar archway—waxed cobblestone

set against light gray mortar, framing glazed French doors—fancy.

But something unsettled, disrupted the usual order.

My senses sharpened, paused.

Stench oozed down the fogged glass, streaks spelling:

Hopeless to help.

Or maybe,

Helpless to hope.

Shit isn’t the best type of ink,

not like sidewalk chalk or spray paint.

Steam rose from the pile of excrement on the ground.

Not from a stray. Not an animal at all.

A person. Desperate. Alone. Forgotten.

What remained was more than waste,

more than a janitor’s chore.

I pictured a hand on the stair rail, cracked lips,

thrift-store clothes draped over a wrong-sized mannequin—

a body trying to hold dignity,

the way a new smoker holds a cigarette.

“Disgusting,” a woman murmured as she walked past.

“Drugs…no, probably mental illness,” her companion answered.

“Neither,” a voice grunted from behind me.

My imagination wasn’t far off. He even held

a cigarette, pinched between two grease-covered fingers.

“Those assholes were probably never told to leave

a McDonald’s restroom. Probably never wiped

with anything less than two-ply.”

I nodded and looked away. He moved with my eyes,

flicked ash at my shoes.

"Bet you still think you’re the good guy," he said.