Birds eat stale bread on the ground. Tortillas, potato  chips, and a half torn pita lie in the grass as well. They are picky; leaving a lot behind as they fly away in the evening. Maybe they just like the bread. Perhaps they’re saving for tomorrow.  The alley cats know.

I sit here on the fire escape, watching, waiting for the sun to go down; the streetlights to come on. Night is round the corner.

Opossums scurry below. Dumpster divers. I light a cigarette and wait to see what their meal is tonight; a quarter of a Quarter Pounder left behind by some drunk earlier in the day? A piece of lettuce? Maybe apples brown and rotting. Time passes.

Pulling a beer from my cooler, I notice the ice is melting. Cold, cold water. I plunge my face into it. The freezing temperature feels good. Like the pool at the Russian/Turkish baths on Division where fat men go and yell, more heat, more heat, just before plunging into bliss or pain. No one cries out. They are stoic like statues of Stalin and Lenin.

I pour the cold liquid over my head and laugh. Another Friday evening. I am alone.