He knocked on the door wearing a suit bought at Goodwill. Wrinkled.  Faded brown with pinstripes. A pair of wingtips with holes in the bottom. Worn-out soles. No one answered.

As he walked down Broadway, he noticed trash on the sidewalks. Burnt foil, glass pipes, Zig-Zag wrappers, a half chewed chocolate bar, brown newspapers, crushed beer cans, all of it making a trail of no precise pattern. Just city debris. Waiting for no one. Fossils that had been there for years.

Cats crossed in front of him as he took a seat on the curb; knees up to his chest. The old man took out a pack of Newports and selected one. There were three left. No change in his pocket, just loose lint and a book of matches three quarters used. The wind blew out most of them.

The saggy man used to have a Zippo given to him from a friend he stood up for at a wedding. It was copper, and it shined. He cried when the groom gave it to him on the steps of the court house. The best man knew he wouldn’t see him again. He knew his rowdy days were over. Wives do that to you.

These days, he flew solo. In and out of seedy bars. Buttered toast at a three a.m. diner. Sanka stirred in a cup. It’s lonely at the top, he whispered, laughed.

So. She wasn’t home, he said to himself. Or, with some other guy, shook his head. What do you want with her anyway? Just cost me money, I don’t have. He got up and began walking again. Jumping over cracks. Singing in a low voice. September Song.