The man sat
Alone by his home
The man stared vacantly
At life passing by
In cars
In buses
In trucks
The man hugged himself
To keep warm
The man rubbed his pale fingers together
Tearing the seams of worn, tattered, wool gloves
That seemed to melt off his fingers
Oh how he longed for a warm crackling fire
Or a cup of coffee with the steam gently curling up to the ceiling
As his breath puffed out in tiny clouds of smoke
The real man was hidden behind years of grime and dirt and dust
Only the eyes of the man
Were crystal clear
Like a tropical blue lagoon
Where you can peer dreamily into its depths and never emerge
The man jingled the can weakly which rattled with copper pennies and silver nickels
He sighed as on lookers sneered or ignored him
The man got up
Shaking violently
He gripped for his box
Soggy, flimsy, weak
Deeper and deeper into the darkness
Into the alley
The man longed for his dreams
But they were lost
Scattered
Among discarded newspapers
And broken glass