White bread

On the day before he died of starvation the old man wearing his poverty overcoat above broken tennis shoes walked slowly down the street.

Besides the small white plastic bag hanging from his dirty brown fingers, his right hand, open, held a huge slice of white bread. On the bread were chunks of brown meat. Inside his slow pace he bent a grizzled face down flickering a tongue, capturing a morsel, pulling it into his mouth.

He then continued walking past chickens turning on gas fired flames, a bread lined bakery window and a freshly squeezed orange juice shop. He danced through pigeon shit and across the street of perpetual dreams balancing his one good meal and endless essential hunger.