An old man in a dilapidated body stands on the corner hawking the Sun Times. I truck past but still take him in. I found myself wishing I was him for a moment--as he briefly talked to someone; undoubtedly someone he talks to everyday.
I viewed him with that crooked smile and unflappable persona. Sure it's a good chance he's homeless, but maybe not. Maybe he lives in a transient hotel or even a housing community with court yard. I envy him not knowing his complete story--only assuming that he has no school loans to pay. No Citibank. No Jones to keep up with. I think about that, roll it deeply in my mind. I could see myself in a one room apartment, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by books. No TV schedule to keep up with or friends to be better than.
This for some strange reason is what this smiling gentleman has shown me.