a street called parramore is lined with men who have no home. another cold spell and the people disappear. all but a few. the least among the least?
my heart aches for the man whose feet stick out from a pile of blankets on the concrete. for the man whose feet are propped on his wheelchair footrest. his body is a mound of blankets. who is he? whose is he?
the holy spirit whispers "made in the image of God." and i whisper a pray for his body and his soul.
on a cold day it's all i can make out. the feet of the forgotten.