I sit here in this corporate institution, surrounded by glass and brick. I can hear him but I can't see him. My homeless friend is yelling again. Incoherent rantings of his private rage. He stays out of site, hidden in the breezeway, standing behind the concrete and brick pillar but still he yells.

Suddenly he comes into view, wearing a different jacket this time. Navy blue with white piping and a large white Nike swoosh on the back. I wonder where he got the jacket. Did someone throw it away? Did one of his fellow homeless give it to him? Or was it merely hidden under his army jacket from a few weeks ago?

He wanders down the street, peering into each garbage can he passes, searching for some hidden treasure. A bounty of a half-full coffee cup or partially eaten piece of food.

I wonder if I went and set a couple of my pop tarts on the edge of the trash can right outside my office if he'd eat them. They're the good kind, chocolate fudge. If I still smoked, I'd leave some cigarettes out there for him. He seems to cherish cigarettes most of all.

He's sitting across the street now, his back against the pharmacy wall. Joggers run by without so much as a glance, ignoring the proof that there is another level of humanity outside their own.
Ralph Ellison had it right. Invisible men do exist.
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