Who are they? I see them daily, yet we never talk. Rolling at wheelchair height through our downtown I can't help but make eye contact. Yet that's where it stops. I want to know who they are...or do I? Aren't they part of our community? If so, why do I fear them? I'm not even sure what to call them. Homeless? This may not be accurate. Perhaps better: the poor of our streets.

Often en route to a morning cappuccino, I half collide with a man who sleeps behind the Guild Theater. Perhaps we share a certain bleariness. He is arranging his shopping cart. I am making a hard sidewalk left onto El Camino. At that hour either action takes concentration.

I have never seen his face. He is perennially hunched over his belongings, hair disheveled, seemingly lost in the packing or unpacking of his wheeled belongings. What is his story? Is he one of the nation's many troubled war veterans? Or is he a veteran of something else? After years of such encounters, I cannot say what he looks like.

Except that he looks like he is in misery. Unreachable, seemingly lost. And only a few blocks from my home. And what is to be done about this?

Next time I see this man, I could start by saying hello.