Standing on the corner crashing cymbals and calling out for alms, the Salvation Army soldier lights a cigarette and loosens the beat. Used to be, he kept it tight. Hitting the instruments with precision while calling out to the crowds, walking up and down Eighth Avenue past adult bookstores, souvenir shops, suit and clothing stores that won’t be there tomorrow; they packed up and left over night with tourists cash, money from the Midwest.

I look down on Eighth Avenue and see all of humanity. The salesman, on his way to a lunch meeting, lawyers going God knows where, hotdog vendors and halal meats with rice sold under my nose, the runaways getting off the busses at The Port Authority, kids from strange places in America, like Idaho and Vermont, Indiana and Nebraska.They walk around in a daze, confused yet rejoicing, and scared, not knowing where they’ll sleep tonight or even if they will sleep.

People scurry to go underground where trains will take them to Columbus Circle, Central Park, 52nd Street, where devils dance to the Hell’s Kitchen beat. Trains going north to The Bronx or south to Brooklyn, some know not where they’re going, the mental misfits sleeping in seats covered in newspapers with slices of pizza at their feet; an offering for the poor.

I watch this city. I watch and I watch. Rents are getting higher. Food cost. Soon, everyone will be eating in soup kitchens. I watch this city. This Manhattan. And I am scared. Mickey Mouse will control us all.