Ricky

I sit on my stoop watching him wander the street, skinny as all hell, scraggily hair and scraggily clothes, coffee in one hand, and a smoke hanging from the other plus a baby boy’s face you’d never expect. Peach fuzz clings to his cheeks as he shakes from the cold. I watch him wander up and down, he has no one to meet, no where to go, not even home, so I’ll lay a blanket beneath the stairs, hoping he’s not too proud to use it, and in the morning I’ll bring him coffee and a smoke, to start another day.