We Leave Them Alone

In the midst of the desert haze outside the Safeway, a revolving cast of faces takes center stage, each playing their role in the theatre of poverty. Be it the casualties of mental discord, victims of malnourishment, or simply the fallout of a relentless world that has cast them aside; these souls are locked in a fierce struggle for survival.

Bisbee, a frontier town of the homeless, beckons them for the simplest reason: space. A sprawling backdrop behind the shopping emporium and the forgotten corners of Freeport McMoRan's domain serve as their sanctuary, intentionally obscured from the polished gaze of Bisbee's virtuous denizens.

Guardians of benevolence are feverishly at work, aiming to dismantle this encampment for the heinous offense it poses to the sanitation and security of the sprawling, unwatched wasteland that had garnered naught but apathy before their arrival.

In the digital corridors of our town's finest citizens, photographic evidence abounds, revealing these wretched creatures audaciously sipping water purloined from the town's resources, choosing survival over succumbing to the arid clutches of the desert's cruel embrace. These noble sentinels of snitch stand as the protectors of our scarce aqua, benevolently safeguarding it for the properly housed collective. Their intentions, surely, are as pure as our mountain water.

Yet, do recognize that this handful of souls doesn't typify the city's pulse. By and large, our amiable folk accord these damned souls their solitude. We withhold our paltry contributions and communal care, for our municipal overlords have sounded the decree: these individuals spurn aid, eschew fellowship. Indeed, every visitation by the jackbooted enforcers of order, sent with an air of authoritarian entitlement, is met with ungrateful disdain. Ingrates, we might mutter.

Perish the thought of gifting sustenance and hydration, free from any entanglements. If the garrison of sheriffs' prying inquisitions is unwelcome, why, then, should an unsullied bestowal of survival essentials from a compassionate neighbor be met with gratitude? It's practically the same, isn't it?

My counsel to the fine citizens of Bisbee would be this: if the sight of destitution turns your stomach, recall that living through it gnaws at the very soul.

We hold our homeless kin close to heart, as siblings of the street. But let not their slumber taint the doorstep of my progressive coffee haven, or else the constabulary shall be summoned. You know the spot, adorned with poetic verses eulogizing the fragility of human existence, clinging laminated to light poles like last hopes.

"They come here because we leave them alone." - Ken Budge

Alas, Ken, the street is a lonely place.