Spotted on Mission Street

Mission Street

A man outside the window is breaking my heart. He might be homeless; he might just be a drunk. He is talking to himself and his arms are folded with as much force as he’s capable of and that isn’t much. You could flick the back of his head and he’d be on the floor. I don’t think there’s any pulling him back from here. He’s like Schrodinger’s cat. He’s still alive, but he’s already died.

He’s wearing bright white, brand new trainers which are a couple of sized too big. Where did he get them? His hair is a greasy mullet and his face might be the texture of cooked liver, covered in warts and polyps and broken veins. Does he have a despairing daughter somewhere who can’t work out why her dad gave up on her and chose booze or drugs instead? Maybe booze or drugs chose him because he’s weak. We’re humans aren’t we? And who says we aren’t allowed to be weak? He has a smart leather jacket, too, and he just rolled some bills into his pocket, but I don’t know – he just looks fucked. So funny how the details can change everything.


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