Desperate Times
Hard to talk about, strange and unpleasant to remember, desperate acts, desperate times, slept in my car off and on, or a city community building on a couch, in the woods at times, without a place of my own, testing the limits, my limits, one night I cried the cry of the sorry and unhappy, nothing seemed to work or fit, nothing, seemed to be where I was, what I was. In desperation, in pity, in those days as a much younger man, lost so much of the time, seeking relief in liquid form, seeking a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
A panhandler walks by and asks, “Give me two dollars?” My face gets angry in expression, “No,” almost incredulous sounding, Why are you so angry? Why not be kind? Just gently shake your head no and leave it at that. Why such anger at this poor stranger? Why? It could have been me, that's why. Then be thankful. Thankful, you took the turn away from the bottle, from the uncertain desperate times, and found a better way to live.