I saw you today, outside, with your dad. I saw him put the little one in the stroller and adjust big brother's pant leg. I saw you cry because you didn't want to sit down. I've seen your dad before. He got out his cup. He started to beg. I watched in disbelief. How could he bring you into this? You're only what? 2 and 3 years old? How long can you sit, begging for money? Did you eat today? How long has it been? I've seen your dad before. With his buddy. Obviously intoxicated. Laughing and falling over. Now, right where you're sitting.
You didn't do anything. To be here like this. I see you. I walk by. I go back to my desk. I can't stop thinking about you. What if you were my kids and I couldn't feed you? What would we do? Where is your mother? Does she know what's happening?
Society is failing you. I could do something! I leave my desk. I look for you, determined to buy you some dinner, at least. You're not there, boys. Where did you go? Did you get enough to eat or only enough to feed your dad's apparent addiction? I could have fed you.
But, I didn't. You weren't there. I missed you.
This time. Next time, I'll buy you ravioli.