He pulls up in the Range Rover, the hybrid one, because he cares about the environment. Parks on the far end of the lot, where the car won’t stand out so much—not that anyone out here is paying attention to the parking lot. The volunteers are inside, and the people who need food are lined up at the door, looking down, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for something that should’ve been theirs in the first place.

He tugs the sleeves of his hoodie, soft as a cloud, stitched in Italy, priced just right to keep it exclusive. His sweatpants cost more than a full shift at the mission, but they’re subtle. Simple. That’s the trick—nothing too flashy, nothing too loud. Just nice enough to say, I have money, but not so much that anyone calls him on it.

Inside, the place hums with activity. Volunteers moving fast, metal trays slamming into place, the faint smell of burnt coffee mixing with disinfectant. He steps up, nods at the regulars, pulls on the plastic gloves that always make his hands sweat. He takes his spot at the serving line, ladling mashed potatoes onto paper plates.

“Hey, good to see you again,” one of the workers says, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag that says Marta. He doesn’t remember her name, but he remembers her voice.

“You too,” he says. “How’s it been?”

She gives a small shrug. “Same as always.”

He nods like he understands. Like this is normal for him. Like he isn’t about to go home to a kitchen with an island big enough to seat six, where the fridge is stocked with organic produce and aged cheese and wine selected by a guy—because he has a guy for that.

An hour passes. Then two. His back aches. His feet hurt. The line keeps moving.

Eventually, his shift is up. He peels off the gloves, tosses them in the trash, nods at Marta.

“See you next time,” he says, and she nods back.

Outside, the air is cold. The line is still there. He moves past them, head down, keys already in hand. The car unlocks as he approaches, the interior warm and waiting. He sinks into the seat, exhales, watches the mission shrink in his rearview mirror as he pulls away.

The streets widen. The houses get bigger. The people disappear.

By the time he gets home, the thoughts have already started to fade, the weight of the evening slipping off his shoulders like an expensive coat. He pours himself a whiskey, settles onto the couch, flips through his phone.

Good work today. Really gave back.

At least he’s doing his part.

To enjoy nature,

I will clear-cut the forests

for a better view.

To watch a sunset,

I will level the mountains

for a better view.

When I am finished,

I will sit back and question,

”What’s wrong with my view?”

you don't know what i have swimming under my skin

the smile plastered on is what you see, but you can't see my intentions

you see my nails with black nail polish but fail to see the blood underneath

i wonder if you're really this stupid

or maybe you don't want to see the chuck of flesh in my teeth

you must be blind to not see the red flag flown across the dead lawn

you want to get close because you don't see the venom in my bite

you want to grab my hand because you don't see the lives it's taken

you want to grasp my lips because you don't see the fangs behind them

you must be blind, so it's all your choice

Darkened barrier etched in illuminating braille.

An eclipsed blindfold,foreshadowing a misleading trail.

Sightless strangers,drunk on newly aged visions unaware.

Staggering down a blind alley,torches aflare.

A light at the end of the tunnel covered in archaic rust.

Our shuttered eyes welcome our blinding trust.