At Broad and Samson Streets

I watched the blind beggar drag himself into the shadow at Broad and Samson, settling where the noise funneled toward him. His cup rested, catching coins by sound alone. Each drop told him something, the quick spin of a dime, the dull fall of a penny. Once, a man with rings tossed a coin, spat, and crossed the street. The beggar did not turn. A sign beside him read Love Your Neighbor, its edges worn by hands that no longer give. I stood there, listening, a bill folded in my pocket, unsure what I offered would mean anything at all.