Moonshine

He looks like moonshine, sitting on the walkway, alone and silver. His hair braided, his beard rough and scratchy. The sight of his clothes smells from behind the car window, and I hear myself stare. He hasn’t looked up at me yet, but I feel like his eyes are on me. His eyes have already arrested me, pinning me down with the words on his cardboard sign. That is something that everyone should know: words have eyes. Words watch you and even after I’ve read them I can feel their gaze on me, weighing me down and judging me. Words have eyes. A staring contest. After all, words are strangers too, until you get to meet them. 

Finally, he looks up from the cold concrete. His eyes are blue, a dark blue, the type of blue that seems indescribable because they look so deep. He scans the cars held hostage by the stoplight, and I am ashamed at how thankful I am for my tinted windows. I don’t know him, but I could have written those words on his cardboard sign myself.

“Please help me.”

I don’t know him. He looks at the cars with an exhausted expression, because he knows that the cars won’t give him help, they’ll give him exhaust too. He runs a hand through his silver, and for a brief moment I think that he knows that I’m looking, staring at him. But then the light turns green, and I find myself hoping that his future turns green too.

I think we meet eyes before I drive away.

I’m not sure though. It could’ve been the moonshine.