Michael

Standing on a street corner in downtown New York City. Holding a cardboard sign, rugged: as if it was used for shelter from the rain. This sign said ‘Will work for HOPE’ written with the E backwards, like a kindergartner,-- sounding blunt and obvious to all the power walkers, shoppers, and drivers that go by him in New York. Your eyes travel through the sign to find this young adult on the other side. As you scan him low-to-high, you've notice every little thing. His ripped Levi jeans,-- held up by one of his mud-filled shoelaces. Going farther and farther up his body; your eyes begins to go on a journey of struggles. His body was caressed and held together by a chemical green jacket; puffy and warm even though it was the middle of July. His thick wool hat, itchy and prickly like a cactus. running down rivers of sorrows to find his scratched out name tag, yet still being able to make out a name. Michael.