Maybe

When you turned to me and raised your brow, I too made a face. He sauntered past: grey, dishevelled, second-hand clothes still rank with beer and smoke. The little girl beside him was clean and bright and smelled of soap. Maybe he was her father or her granddad. Maybe a stranger she befriended as he panhandled, in front of the candy store a block away. Maybe he had a few coins to spare and bought her gumballs instead of the cigarettes we assumed he craved. Maybe he was gentle

and didn't fondle her at night when owls made their perch and roosters knew

their time was coming.

Andreas Gripp

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