A homeless man walked me home this morning

A homeless man walked me home this morning

“Can I recite you a poem?”

“Well I’m kinda in a hurry… (I’m sweaty. it’s hot outside. too bright. I smell like sex. And all I want is a shower.)

…But... you can walk with me if you want” (I don’t have money for you
because some scumbag stole my wallet. I probably wouldn’t give it to
you anyway)

We walk. (I glance at my cleavage wishing I was covered)

He recites -about politicians and media and something about a golden egg.

Are you finished? Will you leave me now?

He asks about me. He doesn’t stutter. He’s engaged. Almost like a
friend. Almost more like a friend than my friends.

I’m graduating. He wants to know more. He doesn’t have to ask. He
doesn’t have an obligation. Doesn’t need to pretend to care.

He asks and I’m thankful.

At the corner we shake hands. I think his name was Paul. (But I can’t
be sure because I was making a mental note to wash my hands)

He left. I felt good.

I wanted to call you and tell you. To let you know

I’m like you – a good person. The kind of good person that lets a
homeless man walk her home.

But I didn’t. Because I’m not. A good person. Well not for that reason.

It would have been a lie. I didn’t let a homeless man walk me home.

In fact that’s not what happened at all.

A poet just happened to save me from the worst part of myself.