Some jock thought it was funny.
A white kid, six foot, strapping, muscled. A Yankees cap cockily jaunted against reddish-brown hair.
A homeless man stares at the ground where his cup, with money to buy himself some food, anything was.
It's in the middle of the street now; coins are scattered across 54th.A morning's worth of vaguely sympathetic commuters, now run over by truck after truck after truck.
The jock and his buddies laugh after the kick. They walk off. Maybe to drool at unattainable European girls in short shorts on Fifth.
I'm shaking with anger.
I can't pick up the coins. But the cup has rolled to the side of the road. I pick it up, and give it to the man. I drop in a dollar. It's the least I can do.
The jocks are too far to yell at. Not many people saw it.
If it is any comfort, the eleventh line of a Jewish prayer, Yigdal:
גומל לאיש חסד כמפעלו, יתן לרשע רע כרשעתו
Gomel l-ish ħesed ke-mif'alo, yiten l-rasha' ra' ke-rish'ato
He rewards the kind man in proportion to his deed, He punishes the evil in tandem with their wickedness
I can't even laugh about accidentally knocking into a missionary now. To destroy the hope and goodwill of anyone, even for a moment, is beyond redemption.