Beggars line the busy streets cup and cloth outstretched the look of desperation etched on their faces like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change just a simple nod of acknowledgement; even after a shower and a change of clothes I must have their look, that broken beaten look the look of the street.
George Square is busy today tourists happy clicking panoramic memories admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph a list of names they will never know and marvel at the antiquated architecture to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance to the passing of a woman named Judith the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings knowing I've been there for 3 hours already because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway, the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke like a coal fired power station in the sunlight this is where they go for over-priced craft ales with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call pretending in mime to be semi-OK that the compadres are running late and "tell me about the theatre show later" the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me because I have the look of the street.