longevity of cash

He didn't look homeless. His pants and jacket were clean if worn and loose. He looked like someone you might see on your way to work stiffly bending on his front step picking up the paper with a tired groan. I couldn't read emotion on his face as he stepped and shuddered slowly past. I noticed his mouth. The deep creases hugging as he chewed out words to the ground. I had the urge to roll down the window to catch what he was saying. Then I saw what he was holding and understood. He was selling socks. At this causal fact I broke in half, my blood spilling invisible. If only I had some cash I would jump out quick. The bank was ten paces away, I could run in again, take out a bit of the check I had just deposited. He wouldn't make it far I'd easily catch up. I would give it to him and then-


then what?

The question punctured an artery, in an instant my chest drained.
My fingers fell from the door handle.
The idea was flopping in my belly like a dying fish. I could buy a pair of socks. Do something small.

 I didn't act.

 
Grasping to empty my pockets that night at home a twenty dollar bill fell onto the table folded into a shrugging rectangle.

 It stared up at me crisp, dead.