Cathy

On a sunny Saturday afternoon
I don't feel too bad
when I see you trying to hitch a ride
on your usual corner intersection,
so I don't stop
using the excuse (in my mind)
that the car seat is full of papers and books.
But on my return trip
after shopping at the dollar store,
you're still there, Cathy,
inching ever so farther off of the side street
and into the busier avenue
hoping to get a passerby's attention.
But the cars rush by
like your invisible.

I suppose I shouldn't be angry with them.
How would they know
that you are a learning disabled adult
living in a foster home
on nothing more than disability income;
that you're often first in line
at the Soup Kitchen
and that you enjoy leading
folks in grace;
or that in your attempts
to hitch hike to the big box store
where you socialize
and beg for a few dollars
for tissue and personal items
that you've been raped?

It's not so hard to move
papers and books off the car seat
and on to the floor in back.
Besides,
I kind of like it
when I hear you say
"God bless you"
upon our arrival outside the store.
I think you mean it.