so sweet, so cold

He has wild eyes, yellowed-white rolling around dark pupils, and crusted foam at the corners of his mouth.

This is his corner, his slab of concrete and snow, and he has boxing gloves on, a red one and a black one.

"HEEEEEEEY!" he yells at the people who pass him, avoiding his eyes. He lurches into their path, and they sidestep him with the mindless ease of professional pedestrians.

If he cut off his fingers and rattled them around in a Dunkin Donuts coffee cup, you know, instead of coin change, would you pay more attention?

What, exactly, would it take for you to wake up and actually *notice*?

When he digs in the dumpster behind the Quickmart, you've seen him, he remembers the time last winter when he found three Saltine crackers, and a perfect plum. A Trinity of carbs and a sweet, fat Buddha, filling a tiny void, feed me, feed me his stomach peeps, like a blind baby bird, forever needing, feed me.