143rd Avenue, New York

Every day I watch from the window in my apartment as feet go by, thousands of them. All stomping or sliding or zipping along, unaware of me. All headed for somewhere important, maybe with a stop first for toilet paper. I've gotten used to watching feet. Started noticing patterns, like at eight seventeen in the morning a pair of suede loafers runs by at breakneck speed. Every morning. Around five or six minutes until ten a.m. a pair of cast-encased feet, bare toes exposed, are carried by propped up on the foot-plates of a wheelchair. The wheelchair is pushed by ratty old Nike Airs with a puncture in the air bubble.

My window is at ground level somewhere in New York. I'd say 'Manhattan' or 'Queens,' except I've just moved here a few months ago and haven't ventured out to map the neighborhood yet.

Yesterday I walked to the window after I woke up and couldn't see anything but loosely-knit wool and a hand wrapped in wet cloth that was tied in a knot on the back of the palm. I leaned far to the left and stared outside at an angle and saw a man's head at the top of the wool coat. He had a patchy beard and was snoring. A dollar bill lay next to his hand.

I knocked on the glass and yelled at him to wake up. He opened his eyes, saw me. For a moment neither of us knew what to do. Then he lifted his hand, stuck up his dirty middle finger, and rolled over. I knocked on the glass again, harder, for a few minutes. I yelled at him to move, I wanted my view back. Nothing.

I went to the kitchen and made coffee. When I looked back at the window, the man had pulled his pants down and snuggled up, spoon-style, hindquarters against the glass.