Today was like quiet winter steam; familiarity was curling up from gutter openings like the solitary sound of a guitar wafting through cold subway stations.

While waiting for a cup of coffee, I watched a homeless person across the street ask for money. He was smiling and spouting end-of-year greetings all about as people clothed tightly in coats passed him in brown leather and black suede blurs and with pocketed hands and scrunched shoulders.

After a lull in traffic he set his collection cup aside, took off his hat and wiped his head and I saw the wrinkles return back to his face. They came from underneath, rolling up from the corners of his body, congregating like people at coffee hour, furrowing in like wagon ruts and stitch scars and mid-life stretch marks.

I saw someone drop coins into styrofoam and miss. Lincolns tumbling to the ground like forgotten wind chimes. He bent to pick them up, and I looked away and started walking.