Warning: heavy rainfall
I met the right teacher — a homeless man,
a grassroots resident of Atlantic City.
I read poems to him at the bus stop in the Caesar’s Palace Bus Terminal Station,
waiting for my ride back to NYC.
It was a cold and rainy afternoon.
He shared his story: the recent loss of his mother,
how her death unraveled his life into something unrecognizable.
He spoke about the endless housing line he’s stuck in,
and the four nights a week he spends in a shelter —
a time limit that has already expired for the week.
He told me about his diet of McDonald’s meals,
refusing the food I offered,
yet asking for five dollars to feed an addiction he never chose.
I refused him the money.
Instead, I read Langston Hughes to him.
We felt every word, their weight sinking deep.
In that shared moment, a story often untold emerged,
woven from pain, resilience, and humanity.
I touched his heart, and he touched mine.
I wanted to take his name, his picture.
But I stopped myself.
I couldn’t promise to help him — not as so many had before.
We only had that moment.
It was heartwarming, fleeting, and profoundly real.
We must stop and confront the need to
heal our devils.
We must yield, allowing ourselves to
hear our angels.
We must rise against all odds.
Are we living in a ghost world,
already escaped from disaster zones,
leaving behind millions who still live but feel dead inside?
Have we blocked our hearts to the needy,
blaming them for not “seeing the light”?
We created a system that denies the means to survive.
We created a monster within,
compelling us to hoard power and possessions,
only to drown in emptiness,
quickly discarding what cannot fill the void.
I read a few poems to a homeless man.
I touched the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Inside, he was just a boy,
lost in darkness since his mother died.
Unable to survive the chaos in his mind,
he felt it was too late to rebuild his life.
Without an education, without a way forward,
he faced a stark reality:
the shelter or the streets.
He refused my food and sought money —
not for hope, but for an escape,
a fleeting reprieve from the poverty
and the system that kept him alive,
but hollow.
We must stop and confront the need to
heal our devils.
We must yield, allowing ourselves to
hear our angels.
We must rise against all odds.