Two Pieces by Sean Pravica

A Good Cause

My brother rarely speaks. After giving a homeless man a dollar, he rubbed his chin before blithely recalling, “There was a day when I only had three dollars to my name. I was hungry and I was bored. Then I bought a forty. I wasn’t hungry anymore.”

He exhaled a satisfied breath for a time gone and over, saying, “And I wasn’t bored.”

A Stranger in Town

Rail thin, he wore a red and blue one-piece jumpsuit. He rubbed his crotch blatantly before traffic, but his placid blue eyes gave no indication of perversion, only relief.

It was impossible to peel my eyes away from his face, calm, serene, waiting at the crosswalk. I was sad to think I would see him only like this, from a car window and likely never again.

What I wondered second most was what his voice sounded like. What I wondered most was what his child was named, since he again carried the powder blue blanket warmly bundling up nothing.

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