Poetry By
Jenifer Wallace
Published on: 11/29/2012
Hungry Woman
The woman standing outside the restaurant asked me for a bowl of soup. Others passed her by. Another beggar. I stopped. She didn't smell like the bottle, didn't twitch like a junkie. She didn't ask for money to feed a habit. Just food. Her eyes couldn't meet mine, and I wondered what happened to her, to wear her down to begging for a meal. She wore blue scrubs, like my mother did before she was "downsized" like my mother's friends still wear working their 12 hour shifts, getting spit on and cursed at by doctors, and patients, and visitors. Like I'll wear, when I finish school. I saw on that sidewalk 50 women I know and a future me. I didn't ask questions, where she came from, where she'd go when she left. My mouth wouldn't make those words, and even a hungry woman in scrubs deserves some dignity. I bought her the soup and I prayed, both for the stranger and for myself.
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