The men standing outside Home Depot seem to not be suffering too greatly. They clump under sparse shade trees. Some smoke. Some talk. Some cast slight looks toward passing cars.
They remind me of prostitutes. There is something simultaneously frail about them--for their sorely desired services are officially forbidden--and stronger, too, than I am--for hazard and chaos toughen when they do not destroy.
I am sure that the men are viewed with scorn or disgust. I fight back pity--I fucking hate pity--and go about my errand elsewhere. I save my revulsion for johns, and maybe that's low of me, too. Whatever gets you through the night. I probably shouldn't judge. But we live in a country of johns who hate those who feed their fixes--for cheap labor, or purchased sex.
I wonder if all of us aren't standing on street corners of our own.