he’d sit at the bus stop for hours…wavin’ busses on by….just liked sittin’ on the bench…smokin’ his Camels…drinkin’ from a brown paper bag…40 oz. …Skoal vodka…cheap brandy…

and he’d talk to himself…carry on full conversations…’bout God…the second coming of Christ…the shape of the woman’s ass ‘cross the street…

people’d pass him by…scared to talk to the 300 pound brother whose eyes were constantly red…had odors comin’ off of him…yelled out at cop cars as they cruised by…he was a popular fella with the boys in blue…

‘ventually he’d lay down on the bench and fall asleep…darkness would come…the stars would shine…he’d shiver in the night air…dreams ran through his head…dreams ’bout a woman he knew long ago…on this very street…eyes were shut…

’round midnight an older lady…with silver hair from down the block would walk by to check on him…bringin’ coffee and sandwiches…maybe a blanket if he needed one…wouldn’t wake him…just left it all under the bench…filled stockings…every night was Christmas eve…

but…he never did see her…never met her…she delivered the goods in silence…under a streetlight that shined down on her wrinkled skin…

God bless you Miss Rosencrantz….