Tin pan, in hand,
fists closed,
clutching a thermos.

He has brown eyes,
a scarf, striped.
He sits on the floor.

Legs crossed, a cane
between the fragile limbs.
He is there, watching.

The sun casts a shadow
on narrow buildings;
tall enough to blot the heat out.

There was a fire here
until the police
put it out.

"He probably did it to himself," they say.
There are marks along his neck.
The scarf covers them, but they know they're there.