The typical user of a food bank is not someone that's languishing

Host: The sky was bruised with the colors of late autumn — a cold, dim orange fading into steel grey. In the middle of the city, a small community center glowed faintly through the mist. Its flickering neon sign read “St. Mary’s Food Bank.” Inside, the air was thick with the smell of instant coffee, cardboard, and quiet humility. Volunteers stacked cans of beans in long, uneven rows.

Jack stood near the back, sleeves rolled up, counting boxes. Jeeny sat at a folding table, helping an elderly man fill out a form for food assistance. The sound of laughter from a child echoed faintly down the corridor — a small, bright sound in an otherwise heavy atmosphere.

The scene began as the sunlight thinned completely, leaving only the soft hum of fluorescent light above their heads.

Jeeny: (closing her notebook) “You know what Dominic Raab once said? ‘The typical user of a food bank is not someone that’s languishing in poverty: it’s someone who has a cash flow problem.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “He wasn’t wrong.”

Host: The words landed like a quiet stone. Jeeny looked at him — her brows furrowed, her eyes darkening with disbelief. Jack didn’t meet her gaze; he was still stacking boxes, his movements calm, deliberate.

Jeeny: “Not wrong? Jack, people come here because they can’t afford food. That’s not a ‘cash flow problem.’ That’s poverty — raw and simple.”

Jack: “It’s temporary for most, Jeeny. A missed paycheck, a medical bill, debt. They’re not starving in the gutter — they’re struggling in a system that’s badly timed. There’s a difference.”

Host: The air between them thickened. The buzz of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder. Jeeny rose from her chair, her hands still resting on the table, the old man quietly slipping away, sensing the storm brewing.

Jeeny: “A difference? That’s what people say to sleep at night. Temporary hunger is still hunger, Jack. A mother choosing between rent and dinner isn’t in a ‘cash flow dilemma.’ She’s in despair.”

Jack: “Despair doesn’t change facts. Look around — most of these people have jobs. Minimum wage, part-time, gig work. They’re not the ‘poor’ of Dickens’ London. They’re caught between bills and paydays. That’s mismanagement, not misery.”

Host: Jack’s voice was steady, almost cold — like a man accustomed to uncomfortable truths. But Jeeny’s eyes flared, and her voice grew sharper.

Jeeny: “You think poverty only counts when it’s picturesque? When it’s in rags and alleys? You think pain has to be visible to be real?”

Jack: “I think words matter. Call it what it is. ‘Cash flow problem’ means it’s fixable — it’s not the end of the world. That’s the difference between a tragedy and a setback.”

Jeeny: “And that difference is exactly why nothing changes.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly — a tremor of restrained anger. The rain began outside, tapping the old windows with rhythmic persistence. Jack looked up at her finally — his grey eyes reflecting the harsh fluorescent glare.

Jack: “You can’t fix a problem you exaggerate, Jeeny. People hear the word ‘poverty’ and imagine hopelessness, helplessness, dependency. But most of these folks don’t need charity. They need time.”

Jeeny: “And in that time, what do they eat? Dignity? Dreams? You talk like a banker measuring empathy in quarterly reports.”

Jack: (with a bitter laugh) “And you talk like guilt can fill a stomach.”

Host: Silence. Heavy, electric. The sound of a tin can falling from the shelf echoed through the room, rolling slowly to a stop. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she picked it up, her fingers tracing the dented metal like a wound.

Jeeny: “Tell me something, Jack — have you ever had to skip a meal? Not because you were busy, but because you didn’t have enough?”

Jack: (pauses) “No.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you don’t get to define what ‘poverty’ means.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — quiet but sharp as glass. Jack didn’t reply. He just looked at her, the kind of look that came from a place deeper than pride — a look that said he’d thought about it, but never felt it.

After a moment, he exhaled.

Jack: “You think I’m heartless. I’m not. I’ve seen poverty, real poverty — war zones, refugee camps. People living in tents, not apartments. Children with nothing but skin and dust. Compared to that, this — this is a different scale. I call it a cash flow problem because it can be fixed.”

Jeeny: “You measure suffering by comparison. I measure it by presence. It doesn’t matter if someone’s starving in Aleppo or Birmingham — hunger is hunger. Dignity doesn’t care about geography.”

Host: The rain intensified, beating against the roof like distant applause. The lights flickered once, then steadied. Jeeny’s face softened, though her eyes still burned.

Jeeny: “Maybe the phrase offends me because it sounds so clinical. ‘Cash flow problem.’ Like it’s a software glitch. Like people are spreadsheets.”

Jack: (quietly) “It’s how policymakers talk. Numbers keep emotions from clouding judgment.”

Jeeny: “But people aren’t numbers. They’re stories. When language starts removing pain, the soul of society begins to rot.”

Host: The room grew still. Even the rain seemed to quiet itself to listen. A young woman entered — maybe in her twenties — holding a toddler on her hip. Her coat was thin, her hair damp, her smile exhausted but polite.

“Is there still milk left?” she asked softly.

Jeeny handed her a carton without hesitation, smiling gently. The woman’s eyes welled up — just slightly — and she whispered, “Thank you.” Then she turned and left.

Jack watched her go. His expression changed — not suddenly, but slowly, like a thaw.

Jack: (barely audible) “She’s probably one of the people Raab meant. Someone with a shortfall. Next week she might be fine again.”

Jeeny: “And tonight, she’s not. That’s what faith in systems forgets, Jack. People don’t live in averages. They live in moments — and some of those moments are unbearable.”

Host: Jeeny’s words settled into the room like the last embers of a dying fire. Jack sat down beside her, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm them from a cold that wasn’t physical.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the phrase is too small for what it describes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world is too small for how it justifies suffering.”

Host: The storm outside began to ease, leaving a soft hush in its wake. A few volunteers moved quietly through the aisles, their voices low, their hands steady. Jack reached for one of the donation forms, scanning it, as though the data might confess something he hadn’t yet understood.

Jack: “I used to think words like ‘poverty’ were dangerous — too emotional, too weaponized. But maybe they’re necessary. Maybe they remind us this isn’t just economics — it’s existence.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “You see? That’s the thing. Numbers are for counting; words are for caring.”

Host: The two sat in silence. The clock ticked toward closing time. Outside, the last of the rain dripped from the eaves, one slow drop at a time.

Jack: “You know, Raab probably meant well — he wanted to frame the issue pragmatically.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes the language of logic can kill compassion. When you start seeing hunger as liquidity, empathy becomes a currency you stop spending.”

Host: A faint light from the hallway reflected off the stainless-steel counter, bathing them both in a cold glow. Then, slowly, the light shifted — warmer now — as if the dawn were inching toward them from somewhere unseen.

Jeeny stood, stretching, her hair catching that golden tint. Jack rose beside her.

Jeeny: “So maybe the truth is this: not everyone here is languishing in poverty — but every one of them is standing on its edge. And edges are dangerous, Jack. One step, one bill, one accident — and you fall.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe our job isn’t to argue over definitions. It’s to catch them before they do.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the center closed. The last volunteer turned the key, and the rain-soaked street reflected the glow of the exit sign — a single word in red: “Hope.”

Outside, Jack and Jeeny walked side by side beneath the awning. Neither spoke. The air smelled of wet asphalt and exhausted compassion.

But as they turned the corner, the first light of dawn began to spill across the pavement — soft, hesitant, but undeniable.

And for a brief moment, the world felt balanced — between reason and empathy, between words and silence — between a cash flow problem and the quiet, unquantifiable ache of being human.