he's limping in his runners. worn by generations of people he doesn't know, the street feeds on his rubber soles. and when the air smokes up and the day bellows, he sits crosslegged.
coffee cup spills empty on the floor. dimes roll in the gutter. his hands scramble. they trample.
it's their money. their pumps, boots, sneakers, ankles. sometimes they trip over his living. being. in their gaits he tastes loneliness, heartbreak, sunken thoughts. but also carelessness. and disgust. to stump his filth out of their eyes.
his feet, always numb. his bruises he cools with their coins.