He digs his right arm into the bag and shovels it into his face, as most of the corn flies half-crunch-munched to the floor. The little birds fly little, temporary flights, dodging, and landing around his swaying Parkinson legs, catching jettisoning popcorn kernels, mid-air bombs. He refuses, or takes and tosses any other food from passers-by – donuts lay rotting and trodden around him, he affirms a “No”, to the bananas I offer. In a second of personal affront, I wish that he shits bloody kernels tonight. And then I take it back. Arguably, the dynamics of choice aren’t differential – perhaps he is allergic to bananas. Nothing personal, bro. But I strain my eyes to adjudge if he were wearing any of the clothes that I had given him a month ago, or shoes. The same dirty rain-or-shine bomber hides the same dirty red and black hoodie. Nothing. He had chosen popcorn over bananas. He had chosen a favorite bomber over a new coat.
There is no need for a new coat when there is nowhere to hang it up, but at the corner of Walnut and Broad, no want for a new pair of shoes when your feet are now walking calluses.