He calls

me up

in the afternoon:

he just

got out

of the mental ward.

He tells me

he’s going to be

homeless soon.

His voice

is slurred;

I can tell

he’s been

drinking.

“I don’t know

what to do,” he says.

I tell him

I wish

I could help.

He rambles on

for

a few more minutes;

I tell him

I have to go.

I hang up

and walk outside,

into the big,

cruel world.

A pretty girl

drives by

in an expensive

jet black car.

She looks

at me

and smiles.