I drive through puddles and hear the rain pound on my windshield as I make my way slowly down a busy street. I feel my stomach growl and review my shopping list in my head: all the basics, plus my favorite cheeses, some truffle oil, and my favorite chocolate.
Then I pass the food bank near my clinic and I make myself look. There is always a long line on the weekend as people try and get something for their families for the week. I look at the people in line today, in the rain. Some are wearing coats, some are holding an empty box over their heads to try and keep dry. I wonder what the cold rain sounds like as it hits the boxes on their heads. It must sound different then it does on my windshield as I sit in my warm car. I see young and old, black and white, and everything in-between. I wonder how long they've been there in the rain, slowly inching their way toward food, their commute for the day. A poor person's traffic jam.