Homeless Veteran Monologue
We cannot be more than three car lengths away. My eyes are drawn to him, they are fixed and I cannot pull away. It must be 80 degrees on this hot and hazy Saturday afternoon yet with ease and comfort he wears a green hooded army jacket that also appears to be lined. It is not dirty, but it is not necessarily clean either. It is old! That’s what it is, old. His dulled out brownish salt and pepper hair appears finger-combed away from his face. Surely his full beard provides some protection from the intensity of the sun. His skin is aged, tan and weathered yet his face remains expressionless as if injected with Botox. His back is protected with the shade cast by the shadow of the tree he is sitting under. The leaves of the tree prove to be as unreliable as the conditions of life as they allow rays of sunlight to enter here and there. The light breeze offers some relief as it offers a refreshing cool air and then drastically changes as if blowing segments of sun rays in our direction. As each car approaches, he gazes upward ever so
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As we approach I now notice the gentleman is propped up on a crate. His legs are crossed and appear to provide the perfect support for his resting arms and hand holding a sign “Homeless Veteran.” Is this crate what he carries his belonging in? Does he have belongings? A moral dilemma begins to erupt within myself. Am I intruding as I peer at him as he encounters each vehicle? Am I interrupting a private moment? Am I invading his spotlight? My eyes are drawn to the ground as I notice a crisply folded, unwrinkled Chick-fil-a bag placed at his feet. His boots are so dust-covered it looks as if it has replaced the black all over. His pants are an unassuming grey-like green. They are modest and seem to serve their purpose without extravagance. His demeanor is calm and quiet. His movements are soft, subtle, and seem to only be executed as a sign of necessity. Without hesitation, the car pulls
As we approach I now notice the gentleman is propped up on a crate. His legs are crossed and appear to provide the perfect support for his resting arms and hand holding a sign “Homeless Veteran.” Is this crate what he carries his belonging in? Does he have belongings? A moral dilemma begins to erupt within myself. Am I intruding as I peer at him as he encounters each vehicle? Am I interrupting a private moment? Am I invading his spotlight? My eyes are drawn to the ground as I notice a crisply folded, unwrinkled Chick-fil-a bag placed at his feet. His boots are so dust-covered it looks as if it has replaced the black all over. His pants are an unassuming grey-like green. They are modest and seem to serve their purpose without extravagance. His demeanor is calm and quiet. His movements are soft, subtle, and seem to only be executed as a sign of necessity. Without hesitation, the car pulls