Names of the Dead

It was at least a year before 9/11. I sat in a Tampa hospital waiting for a friend's medical status. Near me was a bedraggled man in a wheelchair. I don't know why the man felt that I could help. I couldn't. I don't know why he wanted to tell me his story. I was scared. Looking at me with wild eyes, he frantically told me that he had gone to the hospital that morning because of a brown recluse bite on his leg. The hospital sent him "home," which was the street outside. The poison continued to infest his body. It had spread, up his leg, to his thigh, and even higher. (Why he felt he had to tell this to a stranger sitting in the waiting room, I don't know). The man was in pain, you could tell. And he was desperate. So desperate. We waited together, me for my friend, him for life-saving medicine. I left later that day. To be honest, I don't remember them taking him in. I do remember the emergency staff ignoring him, and I do remember thinking that today was probably his last day on earth. He wasn't a priority. He was homeless. And nameless. And even though poison was stealing what little life he had left, at least he had let one stranger know that he mattered. So I want to dedicate this to the unknown homeless man from Tampa, Florida.