A Fall Morning

A chilly morning before dull classes;
dress warmly, pack lunch, don’t forget text books.
A bloated backpack lifted to shoulders
weak from weeks of this same routine.
Grab the car keys, grab wallet,
grab breakfast. Forget a drink.
Hindsight’s clarity says
pack the night before.
Late, speed, red light turns green.
Don’t be obtuse, it means go.

A homeless man jaywalks
and is nearly hit by a speeding car.
His stomach is bloated from lack of food.
Nature is obtuse sometimes.
He walks by a beagle shop.
Good, filling meals, but
he lifted food from there last week.
No need to press luck by trying again.
He goes to a place across the street
where he hadn’t been for about month.
The chilly look of the owner
delivered a message with clarity:
he was not welcome.

A woman takes a morning stroll,
first time since her son’s birth.
Not all for pleasure, though,
just on the way to the store.
Dinner was to be chili.
The obtuse scrawling on
aisle markers received clarity
with the donning of glasses.
Items purchased, she leaves.
A smelly, ragged looking man
greets her at the doors.
His lifted hands beckon her
and she retrieves her
bloated wallet, and drops
a twenty in his hands.