Morning leans in,
unfolding by a crumbling wall
where whispering white blossoms spill.
He, bare-footed,
wears yesterday’s tired shrug
and reading glasses that hide
everything unsaid.
Wares made of pretend gold
lie on faded velvet trays,
a kingdom of tin and tinsel
for passing eyes and careless fingers.
Each trinket glints with hope,
a quiet plea,
reflecting from the sheen of plastic.
He squats, cap mischiefly angled.
He pokes at the ground with damp fingers,
with his giggles
muffled behind the concrete’s glow.
Laughter spills,
too loud for the silence of the street,
yet just right for the deafening hours.
They do not speak—
not with words, at least.
Leaning onto the crook of the sidewalk,
bodies communicating amid silence.
He, mid-smoke, mid-thought,
watches the world pass
without meeting its gaze,
counting the hours
as the sun moves more than the crowd.
A bag rests open,
its hunger mirroring theirs.
Still, he has carved a corner of the day
Just to be there.
His hands don’t rush,
but still,
things settle.
His presence, at this moment, does not sell.
It sits,
waits
and loves without receipts. F
