Sunday Morning

I saw him on Sunday, stumbling down the sidewalk. A crumpled paper bag in his knotted fingers masked the oblong glass of a bottle of wine… or was it malt liquor?

I hit a red light and observed him through my rearview mirror. He stopped and stared at the ground for a minute as if to try and gain some kind of composure, then swaggered on, vigorously pulling on his too-big frayed jean shorts.

His work boots treaded heavy on the ground. His glazed eyes lazily shifted back and forth on the Sunday morning street as Christians drove by in their mini vans on their way to church, barely sparing him a passing glance.

I wanted to stop, but I didn’t.

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