lunch
I took a walk in Central Park today, as I do pretty much every workday, and saw a homeless man, as I do pretty much every day. He was dirty, dirtier than the average person who makes the streets his home. His face had layers of dirt that made his skin look gray. His hair was in matted, oily layers that I recognized from the time I was so drugged after a car wreck that I couldn't stand up long enough to wash my hair for two weeks.
He was standing on the side of the pathway, facing sideways so he could watch passersby. Could have, but chose not to; his eyes were closed. As I got closer I could hear him saying something in a rhythm, a pulse, like a mantra, and as I got close I could distinguish the words: It's nothing but a broken heart. It's nothing but a broken heart. It's nothing but a broken heart.
He was standing on the side of the pathway, facing sideways so he could watch passersby. Could have, but chose not to; his eyes were closed. As I got closer I could hear him saying something in a rhythm, a pulse, like a mantra, and as I got close I could distinguish the words: It's nothing but a broken heart. It's nothing but a broken heart. It's nothing but a broken heart.