He sits on the bench waiting for
contact, any sign of life that is willing to make a gesture
in his direction that will prove that
he is not forgotten, that he is still alive.
The sky is grey and the streets are
cold and empty. As he stares at the steel buildings
a bitter wind grazes his face. He
winces, feeling the tears slowly forming
in his eyes as his body contracts to
protect itself from the unrelenting cold.
Though he cannot see it he knows the
skin on his face has turned white from the cold.
His thin and patchy beard offers little
protection, and the holes in his clothing
remind him that no matter how hard he
tries, no matter whose help he seeks,
no matter how much time he sacrifices
to find any hint of comfort that
the cold will always disregard his well
being as it satisfies its own selfish desire
to remind him that he is only so
strong.
As the city comes to life they pass him
by. At first they come slowly, barely a crowd ever
forming in front of him as they wait
for the bus
as they read the newspaper
as they buy a cup of coffee
as they walk sleepily, yawning and
covering their mouths
as they wait for the traffic signal to
turn
as they hail a cab
as they check their watches and curse
the sky
He sees them all as they come together
in front of the bench. He has awaited their company
for so long, and now he is surrounded.
He waits in anticipation, giddy for the first one
to reach out and make contact, to smile
or nod, to say "good morning, sir."
Every set of eyes sees through him. He
runs his thumb between the wooden slats that make up
the seat of the bench. He feels the
pits between the varnish that have crept up from years
of curious fingers and unforgiving
bodies which have tormented throughout their existence.
His eyes wander skyward to see a face
in front of his. Its hazel eyes are set inside of a deep brow
which has furrowed as it has set its
gaze. The coarse black hair that sits above the brow has been
meticulously set to the left, showing few signs of age. The skin
surrounding the mouth and cheeks is freshly shaven with no pockmarks.
As the mouth begins to move his anticipation heightens.
"Alright, Frank. It's time to go.
Yo know I hate to do this, but I've told you a dozen times this week.
You can't take up the space in front of the bus stop if you don't use
the bus." A silver flash reflected off of his blue shirt as he
outstretched an arm and pointed away from the bench. "Please
move."
He stood up, staring at the man with
the hazel eyes and furrowed brow and coarse hair and freshly shaven
un-pockmarked face with the blue shirt that flashed silver on one
side. He looked down to his right and walked toward a stone wall and
sat in front of it. The cold wind had conspired with the stone to
create a domain in which there was no escape from the cold. He
brought his knees to his chest, and as he exhaled a violent wind
swept over every inch of his body, permeating every opening in his
clothing.
He looked to his left, back to the
bench. He saw it as a pedestal that offered refuge from
the bitterness of the cold, unforgiving
stone. He looked to see a well-dressed man in a grey suit
with a briefcase approach the bench.
The man in the grey suit looked at the man with the hazel eyes and
furrowed brow and coarse hair and freshly shaven un-pockmarked face
with the blue shirt
that flashed silver on one side and
smiled. "Thank you, officer" he boomed. The man in the grey
suit
looked down to his right and shook his head.
"Fucking bums."
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