Victor Kerlow Dear Diary:
Me: Waiting for the bus at Ninth Avenue and 39th Street on a hot June afternoon.
He: Talking to himself as he wanders slowly down the sidewalk. Teeth missing. Dirty, torn clothes too heavy and too many layers for the heat of the day. Pants sag, coat too large, an old baseball cap covering tangled bits of hair. Turquoise and silver rings on his grimy hands.
Leans three plastic shopping bags against the bus sign, each one bulging with possessions, the handles tied with string.
A small white feather, probably from a pigeon roosting on a tenement windowsill overhead, floats down from above, caught in the eddies of passing traffic. Surprised, he sees it in the corner of his eye as it passes close to his cheek and alights on his sleeve.
He picks it up gently, turns it over, holds it between finger and thumb for close inspection. Reaches deep into his bulky coat and extracts an old wallet. Opens the wallet, unzips the change pocket and carefully tucks the feather into the opening. Zips and closes the wallet and returns it to the folds of his stained coat.
Picks up his three bags and continues down the street, still talking.
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