#74

A dirty plastic shopping bag. Resting beside muddy shoes. Recently removed from tired feet haloed by well-worn jeans. Stained. Weathered. Odorous. Hanging loosely around the waist of a man, a man with greasy gray hair plastered to spotted and wrinkled skull. Sitting in front of a synthetic fire. Plastic decals in the nearby window shouting about the latest latte. This fire is usually accompanied by a crowd of young souls, laughing and chirping and chittering. But the man has it to himself. And he leans in, trying to scare the chill from his bones. A moment of peaceful solitude. A moment of luxury. On the sidewalk a pack of pigeons peck at food scraps. When the workers of the coffee shop come outside to chase the man away, he will join them.