Encounter
He cut in front of my intended path of travel.
I could feel the sweat droplets freezing between the frown lines of my forehead,
like little beads nestled between corduroy ridges.
The dreaded trek back to my apartment from the gym.
I moved to my right and he moved to his left. When we collided, I said, “Excuse me.”
His right eye looked into my eyes, his left eye still in the shadows of the street lamp.
He had trash bags in his hands. He was wearing an old flannel shirt.
He must be doing the late-night garbage run.
I kept walking.
I looked over my shoulder. He was reaching into the university garbage barrel.
He was lifting things out.
He was homeless and he looked just like my Grandpa in that red flannel.
By CATHERINE MOORE
