Dear Editor of the Chicago-based Chicago Tribune newspaper,

Today I was nearly accosted by a homeless man. I saw him across the street as I waited for the light to change. At first I did not realize he was homeless, but then I saw his eyes. His eyes were so big and beautiful. They looked like the eyes of a deer, so precious, so tender, so needing of love. I am loved. I know that. Many people love me, and I love them. He needed to be loved, by someone, even a random stranger. I could feel his longing for friendship and his need for companionship so vividly that I could barely contain my emotions. Red-hot bursts of honest love, sheer, unadulterated, unconditional love, began to course throughout my entire body. I wanted to reach out to him, and embrace him like a long-lost brother.

The light changed and the masses of people began to cross the street. He did not move. I could see him, so fragile, so needing, such a beautiful creation, just standing there. Waiting. Hoping.

As I neared I saw a small tin can by his feet. In it were a few coins-dropped there, no doubt, by the few do-gooders that still roam. I began to speculate. How long will it be until he has enough? One hour? Two hours? Perhaps a mere ten minutes and he will have enough money for a six-pack of beer of bottle of cheap liquor. I could see him as he lay against a curb that night, trying to use alcohol as a temporary escape from homelessness. How dare he, I thought to myself, how dare he presume to think that he can avoid the harsh realities of the harsh reality that is his life?

Suddenly I wanted to kick his can of coins. I wanted to throw the can into the street. I wanted to knock him down and kick the back of his tattered head. I could see myself picking him up, giving him time to collect himself, and then punching him in the face. Oh how I wanted to punch his worthless, homeless, alcoholic face. How I wanted to kick his face and bash the worthless life out of his worthless body. I wanted to feel the warm blood on my hands and wrists as I sat on his coughing asthmatic chest and punched his mouth and nose. I wanted my knuckles to bleed as they received gnashes and cuts from his teeth as I broke them and his skull as I shattered it on the cold pavement.

Oh, how I wanted to kill him. The rage boiled inside me. How dare he be different? How dare he be homeless? And how dare he look at me, with his sad eyes, and make me feel guilty? How dare he evoke my passion, my emotions, my love; such things he does not deserve.

As I neared him I looked into his eyes and smiled a smile of love. He recognized the compassion in my eyes and the love in my smile and beneath his dirty matted beard he smiled back, shyly, hesitantly, grateful that I would consider him a man, and worthy of love.

After I passed, I thanked God for America and for love and for prisons and for the death penalty.

Sincerely,

Matt Shaw

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