Most of the day. Watching. Dozing. Feeling the day slither and bump into things.
Work for a living, feel the wheels glide by. Sometimes they stop, drivers with scornful eyeballs, you lazy no-good bum, why ancha working like the rest of the joes, nine-to-fivers, tarring roofs, laying down blacktop, the pavement’s for walking not sleeping, not swallowing Old Crow and collecting pop cans for a nickel a clunk. You just sit there. Doing nothing. Store-step under your ass all day, dirty hands scrubbing for dimes. Whatcha doing, doing nothing, and then a green light, go. And they forget. They always forget there was somebody sitting on the step of Rosie’s Deli, invisible, mostly.
Loose as a goose, ain’t been no juice for almost two years, bud. Tap water, spigot water, rain water, whatever. Sometimes Dobbs gives you a Mountain Dew before he shoos you off. But no juice. Not for a long time.