I watch as he crosses the street
hunched over pushing the cart
the small wheels wobble along
under the weight of his life
gathered in green plastic bags.
His clothes are tattered and worn
gray strands of hair fall loosely
under the blue woolen cap.
There but for the grace of God
but is God’s grace so capricious
doled out like food at the shelter
a spoonful of cold mashed potato
only so much is granted, it’s precious
and not to be wasted or used foolishly.
Yet, there he goes a smile on his face
as he wanders into his future
grace for him a pushcart piled high
with large green trash bags
and small, wobbly wheels.