bread and roses

I saw him through the big sliding doors even before I stepped inside. I don't know if the other shoppers could see it, his very full backpack or the fact that it's not quite as warm as his layers of clothes might suggest. I see him head down an aisle and I turn down another. We cross paths in the bakery section and I take a longer look while pretending to eyeball the bagels. I see the dirt under his nails, the fraying at the hem of his jeans. He's perusing the loaves of wheat bread and has a container of soy milk in his hand. It strikes me then and however unfairly that I wouldn't assume healthy eating habits would be a priority and yet why not, why the hell not.

Up close his backpack is pretty dirty and I see a familiar card poking out of the side, I confirm what I know, he's spent some time at our place and yet his face is unfamiliar. He looks at me and I smile. Hey, we both exchange and the briefest of smiles flit across his face before he looks away. He reaches for a loaf and walks away, milk in one hand and bread in the other. I stand and watch him go because in these moments I want to engage a bit deeper, for however little it matters I want to let him know he is not invisible to me, that my heart goes out to the unfairness of not having a home and having to carry his world on his back. And yet words sometimes or often fail me, and I'm left alone with the bread and the bagels and the softness of Hey.