Anonymity

Photo by Guian Bolisay
https://www.flickr.com/photos/instantvantage/

The man in the hat picks his nose and wipes his hands on his trousers.

The woman with the French Poodle clutches at the side of her stomach, pinching the new love handle that she swears is getting more defined.

The Greek restaurant owner has a sunken look of defeat under his heavy eyebrows.

Old malt liquor and urine fill the air as Billy D crosses the street, in the middle of his daily tirade.

A young couple holds hands as they witness Rockefeller Center for the first time. She looks quietly towards the ground, a palpable sigh of regret escapes her mouth. He pretends not to hear her, and tears a fresh cut into his index finger with the jagged edge of his thumbnail.

Officer Telez crosses the street, Large Black Coffee in hand, and waves at Mr. Gibbons, asks him about his husband and son.

The symphony of Japanese cars and American Steel litter the air with preludes of what the day will bring.

And no gratitude is required.

I am a dead man, with no past documented and no record of existence. I live with demons and angels, and on this ledge, I protect the city that never sleeps.

Your dark passengers are safe with me. So long as they stay inside your head.

~S.O.F.

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