We Met at the Recycling Booth
There he was, with his bike loaded down with various gear. He was toting life support items mostly, wrapped with plastic bags and coarsely tied bungee cords. It’s covered to keep private, a random existence, yet so evident, that he is homeless. He probably resembled Aqualung, from the Jethro Tull album. His shaggy rough edges, marred by life’s bitter hardships; yet he remained determined.
He seemed to know the lady at the end of the line. Maybe they were romantic. But then she seemed to be much more talkative than him. She unloading her stash from the shopping cart while chatting up patrons from the store. Most would shake their heads and go about their business. She would smile at him, and he knew without a doubt, she was friendly. But she talks to herself too much, and folks shied away; still she would always smile.
People here call them recyclers, perhaps to be kind; but they don’t care. They get along just fine, with or without societies approval. Maybe it’s a part of human nature to adapt, because they find a way to make things work. Or maybe it’s simply believing, there is always a way.
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