I stopped at the light, my tattooed arm out the window. A man in ragged clothes held a sign:
At least give me the middle finger
“Clever sign.” I chuckled.
His broken eyes met mine. “Everyone else in my life’s already flipped me off. Thought I’d let the public have a turn.”
As I passed it though the gap between us, the five-dollar bill was as tattered as the relationship with my family before I got sober.
His fingers trembled as he took it.
“God bless,” he whispered.
And meant every word.
“Take care,” I replied.
And meant every word.
B.G. Smith 