In the blur of rain on the windshield, in the moment it takes the blades to wipe forward and back, he walks into view, across your horizon, hoodie turned up, face down, looking no where but down, hands in pocket— headlight specters giving him a transparency that forces you to a dead stop.
In that moment from left to right, right to left, the boustrophedonic flow, he vanishes into the next line, like all the other spirits crying for leaving.
Now, you notice the other distances:
The old one with the white worn ball cap and torn suede jacket leaning in a reverse hunch on the bus bench, his turned down knapsack at his feet- an existence of discarded coffee cups all around, his sad-eyed dog mirroring his misery with a downward whine.
The vendor in the ramshackle booth selling unsellable papers to the bowed faces reading the gray that clouds their mind.
The lame, lonely, angry, downcasts in the busy crowded crosswalk bemoaning the lost past, ignoring the reconnections walking by-e.
Those on the side searching for the lost French fry among empty food containers- rejecting the plea of the woman in the llama wool cap selling fresh clean garden fruit from a rickety table for less than the grocery.
Smiling, silent, you lift up your empty cup- and thinking- of all the unspoken words in your soul, you bless these night by night and day by day ghosts, trying but never seeing the chance in their every day walk.