i pretended to be cleaning off nearby tables and listened to him speak. clearly strung together thoughts, articulate, flawless grammar. one leg was crossed over the other. good posture. styrofoam cup of coffee, rye bread.

i imagined a dark gray suit instead of his tattered layers. a shower and a shave. sitting in a restaurant or at home instead of at the edge of a roomful of hungry drifters, still alone.

when we pass him on the streets - standing like a statue or walking in his slow, measured gait, duffel bag at a ninety degree angle to his body - he doesn't make eye contact, doesn't react to a hello. we didn't know if anything even went on in his head.

how does this happen to people? what am i supposed to do?

[ elliott smith ]