He was skinny,
that kind of skinny that speaks of neglect
or use of drugs.
Probably drugs, I concluded,
looking at his pale skin, dark-rimmed eyes
and scraggly hair.
I clutched my wallet tighter
and wondered if I had locked the car.
“Is this the only Wendy’s around here, ma’am?’ he asked.
His voice was pleasant and polite. I replied that I thought it was.
“I am to meet a gentleman here,” he said, “and wanted to be sure
I was in the right place.”
Gentleman, or dealer? I wondered.
A younger boy joined him. “Want anything?” the first one asked.
The boy ordered a drink; the skinny one paid.
Then he fished in his pocket, pulled out loose change
and put it in the donation box for overseas hunger.
“It’ll help out someone else a little,” he said to his friend.
I looked away, ashamed to know
how quickly I judged by looks and clothes.