“I’ve been on the streets for three years”, he said through chipped and blackened teeth. His eyes were blue, his hair matted and yellowing. His skin, grubby and porous, was chapped. It was broken around his bitten fingernails. His brown, stained coat smelt of old bookshops. I’d seen him and taken him a coffee. It was a cold day, it was Christmas Eve. “I can’t say the situation wasn’t my fault”. He lowered his eyes and remembered. He flashed back to when he lost his footing. “It’s just so hard to get back on track”. People scurried past us in their plagues; indifferent to their ignorance. Their arms strained under the weight of bags and boxes; toys and gadgets, perfumes and clothes. All of unnecessary value. I glanced down at his old, woollen hat. It was full. Full of moths, brown, speckled and dusty. Some were alive and still twitching. Some crawled over others to escape. They could not escape; their wings did not work. A child approached, reaching into her pocket. She produced a shiny chocolate coin. She dropped the coin into the hat. The old man nodded and the child ran back. Her mother hugged her, smiling proudly. The moths devoured the chocolate coin almost instantly. All that was left was the twisted scraps of foil. Scraps shining like gold in the bitter, winter sun.
2023
