The campground we

are staying in

this week has fancy toilet paper

in the bathroom. The quilted kind

with flowers and butterflies

like a grandma’s house, and it spins

on the roll the way toilet paper should.

At the intersection of the freeway and the

main road, as we pulled through,

there was a person holding a

cardboard sign. The person presented as a

conventionally attractive cis male, so I will

gender him “he,” though I have no way of

knowing. As I drove closer, the sign read,

will work for food.

I’ve done my fair share of working for food,

though I never held a sign in the road in

high summer heat to do so. He looked like he

needed a shower, but otherwise he was just

walkin’ down the road; no backpack,

no belongings, just a man and his body.

I made a double batch of trail mix;

enough to fill the Tupperware container &

the tub the peanuts came in. I

rolled down the window,

“Hey, man, you hungry?”

He looked me up and down and

raised his eyebrows,

yeah, man… anything.

Left arm, with my sleeve,

out the window, holding the peanut tub,

“Trail mix.”

Thank you, brother. God bless you.

“Stay safe.”

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