There is a drug addict in the bushes. Out cold.
The ABCs fly inside. Lunchtime. Here they come.
Recess, ribbons, giggles, and short sleeves. Revelry.
There is a drug addict in the bushes. Boggy eyes open.
Choose, hurry, this should be easy—time to decide.
He is standing on filthy feet. Wheezing.
Pick. One or the other.
Smiles or open sores.
Monkey bars or Narcan.
Innocents or syringes.
Jubilation or resuscitation.
There is a drug addict in the bushes. Using.
It’s the children or him.
Is this sacred or desecrated ground?
From the classroom window, I saw my math teacher march to the addict and whisper in the young man’s ear. She then handed him some cash and knelt, her hand on his shoulder, and looked directly into his eyes, no different than how she peered into us and poured into us during class. The addict never returned, though I knew him well, my half-brother.
I asked him what my math teacher said.
In suffering, there is redemption, but there is a line compassion never crosses.
Fair enough.
My half-brother overdosed a year later in his car.
Still, though, fair enough.