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      September 19, 2022Susan VespoliOrange

      I’m the mother of the man
      living at the park off 57th Avenue,
      a man who found religion and wants to pray
       
      with those he meets on the street,
      those who buy five-dollar hits
      of fentanyl and contemplate suicide
       
      like he once did. I’m the mother
      of a man who carries a bag
      of oranges from the 24-hour WinCo,
       
      where he walks to wash his face,
      a man who sleeps upright on a cement bench
      beneath a ramada, eyes closed, head
       
      drooped forward. I’m the mother
      of a man I hear breathe in the backseat,
      nodded off next to his backpack
       
      and jug of water as I look out
      the windshield at traffic lights,
      pigeons on lampposts, clouds—
       
      but he’s not there; he’s back at the park,
      head bowed, peeling an orange
      at a concrete table in the shade.

      from #76 - Summer 2022

      Susan Vespoli

      “Every homeless person you pass on the street or in the park is someone’s beloved kid. One of them is mine.”