As the happy hour crowd walks down Redwood Street in its ***** lamp lit haze
they pass by dozens of cart pushing men in old bomber jackets fading into the unwashed stone beneath windows newly washed by minimum wagers.
These men and their overstuffed suitcases, their ***** fingernails and aging shoes, their cold noses and heavy breath seep into the shadows like long forgotten artifacts on an antique storeβs shelf. They droop, collecting dust, begging to be lifted or even touched.
Some smile and sing with an overturned hat patiently expecting on the street curb.
Some sit, slumped and seem like a misshapen lump of clay in the dark with plastic cup extended.
The happy hour crowd coming from UMMC clad in multicolored scrubs and pressed business suits with golf club cluttered ties and black silk button down blouses that block the cool wind passes them by with the same glance they give to lamp posts.