This morning I met a homeless man. He was rummaging through a communal dumpster— one of three in the condo complex. I heard him before I saw him. The morning light seemed hesitant offering perhaps a false sense of shadow and grayness. He didn’t notice me approach him— the dumpster. I watched for a few seconds….

This man, dressed in grease, dirt and soldier green, had this wild Frank Zappa look to him; his Rasputin eyes looking through cinched garbage bags— white and black. He was eating what seemed to be moldy bread. I coughed, announcing my presence. He was too fatigued to scurry back into obscurity. “Hey,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said.

I put my garbage bag down by my feet. I tried not to be judgmental; he seemed to be of the age of my thirty-year-old son; he looked older than I felt. I said nothing.

I didn’t know what to do or think. Sometimes instinct just kicks in. We stared at each other, the have and the have not. He didn’t seem maniacal. Perhaps with a shift in the winds of fortune, I could have been staring at myself dumpster diving for food— sustenance. Perhaps....

How much is a can of Progresso minestrone soup, a package of Quaker Oak granola bars, some left over meat loaf, six bottles of Poland Spring water and a bar of Coast soap? Not much, considering I had so much more to offer. But to that man, it was a generous gesture repaid with repeated thanks and a genuine smile.

I doubt I’ll ever come across that man again. Once discovered, the dumpster divers seem to disappear. Tonight I’ll leave two more cans of soup on my back deck just in case, ‘cause I just can’t get it out of my head….