He has a bench in Central Park, a step on Seventh Avenue, a corner on Broadway. But home is a feeling rather than a location, something those who have a lock and key and a mortgage fee will never understand. The gatekeepers tell him ‘That bench is for people to sit on’, so he grabs his sleeping bag with beat up weathered hands, and leaves the park, realising ‘people’ is another category in which he does not belong. Autumn is here so winter is near. A chance to rush to snowy mountains with Chanel scarves to escape ‘dreary’ lives. He takes his vacation from park to doorway, views aren’t as nice but it dulls the bite. As night drapes over Manhattan, he zig zags between expressionless crowds, invisible like an unread word. He seeks a corner just off Broadway (the bright lights numb his loneliness). In soiled clothes and old scuffed shoes, he sits on newspaper wrinkled by other hands and watches passers-by with bloodshot eyes, bills burning in their pockets. A man with shoes shinier than dreams soils his corner with a *** of spit. He wonders, do I belong everywhere, or nowhere at all? And he pulls out his guitar and begins to sing, October cough thick with illness, ‘They say the neon lights are always bright on Broadway’.