He Calls Me Pops

He’s a bum. Oh, wait…
He’s a derelict. Oh, wait…
He’s a tramp. Oh, wait…
He’s a beggar. Oh, wait…
He’s a panhandler. Oh, wait…
He’s an outcast. Oh, wait…
He’s a black sheep. Oh, wait…
He’s a misfit. Oh, wait…
He’s a deadbeat. Oh, wait…
He’s a druggie. Oh, wait...
He’s a human being, like myself.
We share our faults, our dreams, our nightmares.
We all do.
His name is Daniel,
Hebrew for “God is my judge.”
Daniel knocks on my door maybe once a week.
I always have a dollar for him.
One blisteringly hot day he asked if I had a soda.
I said no. I don’t drink soda.
I gave him a bottle of Topo Chico.
He chugged it down.
Later I went to the store and bought a six pack of Coke.
His name is Daniel.
He’s a human being, like me.
Couple days ago he wanted to sell me the bike he was on.
Twenty bucks.
I explained my balance is fucked cause of neuropathy.
Nerve damage.
Then I gave him an ice cold Coca Cola.
He smiled at me and said,
Thanks, pops.
Things really do go better with Coke.