by B. G. Smith

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.