Sometimes,

It appears to me as if social interaction has encountered a dead-end: It is easier not to express any care regarding that which does not concern (at least, directly- we do not aspire to be complete pigs, for goodness sake) the individual self.

I,

for example, do not think that I

have much to lose if I

ignore or, in a fit of delicate good breeding, turn my head away from the foul-smelling! man who deigned to sit next to me on the bus-ride to school.

It is evident to me, I think,

that he is homeless.

I catalogue [Writing Analytically ENG250, MWF 0900AM-1015AM, SPRING16, Room 105] everything:

green, thick-soled boots; musty-smelling overcoat; faded blue jeans with brown stains at the knees; ball-cap atop the head; trailing beard covering the lower face;

big, lumpy bag.

I

should surprise him, and smile cheerfully, bid him a 'Have a Good Day!' before dismounting at Federal & 50th.

During the walk up to the school entrance,

I should grin at how nice I must have made him feel.

When Mr. Mather questions upon which side of the bed I woke up this morning, I should pause for a moment, meaningfully, before launching into my tale of an eventful bus-ride:

'Marie and the homeless- the practice of empathy'

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