When he left for work in the morning, his silver Prius was like a ship in dark green waters, creating a wake that pushed away the debris of men and women who had nowhere else to go. He house was warm, remodeled, and full of grand old architecture. The homeless men and women used to sit on his step and wait for the bus. He used to plead for them to move and they would for a while. They’d push up on their skinny arms and legs and shuffle away, apologizing, and move in currents towards the park. Once they were far enough down the road, he’d jog down his steps and they’d be gone by the time he turned the corner.
Once at the park the group’s cloudy presence bothered the young mothers whose children played on the green grass. Shuddering, they’d push away their cream colored children, who were nestled in expensive chrome and navy strollers. “What can be done about our city?” The mothers would murmur to each other, their thin laps wrapped in homemade quilts. “Who can we tell about these poor people?”
Committees were formed, coffee and wine served in the clean parlors. Art reached from the rich brown hardwood floors to the white glossy crown-molded ceilings. Pocket doors were slid shut, city council members wrote down notes on legal pads. Eventually the blight was moved west, and the mothers sighed in soft relief when they saw the navy policemen arrive, their badges and belts dipped in gold. The dusty grey ones didn’t come back.