He wears worn out blue Dickies work pants and an equally faded work shirt topped off with a nondescript cap. The cap covers most of his greasy cigarette stained white hair and shades his rheumy eyes. Every visible piece of skin is covered in thick psoriasis scabs. Many of them weep and ooze. His hands are ancient crustaceans scuttling into his pockets or picking at bits of skin. I've seen him hunched over his knees dripping spittle onto the sidewalk. No one speaks to him, including me. I have made eye contact with him before, but it doesn't seem to mean much. I often wonder what it would be like to sit down next to him and say something. Anything. I am scared of this man and I am ashamed of my reaction to his existence.
I was at Mocha Joe's yesterday enjoying a rejuvenating chai tea and piece of carrot cake before dinner. A dog sat quietly under a table being man's best friend. This dog's black fur gleamed and beckoned to be stroked. I couldn't resist petting her silky fur and whispering lovely things to her shy, quiet face. I could have sat and petted her for hours. I commented about her beautiful coat and her human told me the dog had pretty much eaten nothing but salmon for her entire life.