He stands in the August heat,
bearded with clothes and a heavy coat,
transferring change from a coffee cup
into his pants pocket.
Around his neck, a cardboard sign
made from a pizza box
and a nylon cord
from a bundle of newspapers
reads “I NEED CHANGE,”
in black marker.
Earlier in the morning,
I saw him reading the paper,
sitting atop the stack from which it came,
as I waited for the pharmacy to open.
I followed him curiously to the stationary aisle
where I saw him shove a Sharpie into his pocket
so quickly, as not to be seen,
that it ripped its seam.
Hours later, he paces frantically
looking through his pockets
to quiet his grumbling stomach
or the voices inside his head,
only to find a hole.
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