He looked across the street through his window; rain spattered, the blinds halfway opened. The old man looked at buildings in disarray, a cobblestone street falling apart, the drugstore on the corner where black and brown men gathered each morning; drinking their coffee, smoking cigarettes, scratch offs in one hand, a penny in the other. No one ever wins.

Cars drove by, made a clippity cloppity sound with tires running over potholes. A STOP sign bent. Children crossed the street. That damn guard blew her whistle. The sound pierced his ears.

The old man closed his blinds. He was done looking. Maybe it was too much to see; the Rust Belt, cities America forgot.