Milton comes in. There is little poetry left in the man. He's shoeless. Toothless. His face traduced and trampled. The cracks on his face are dry. Saltiness settles in the hollows under his eyes. The dead see, too.
I walk him out. His socks have holes in them.
You need to get shoes, man.
They stole them, he says.
He's not the only one missing soles tonight. A frat boy is screaming outside the bar, caught in a street fight, robbed of his brogues. He's mad as hell in his expensive socks. Chasing down his assailants, ranting, his friend is close to tears. Even if he weeps an ocean on the sidewalk, they won't be clean, not in these parts. People shit in the alleys around here. They have no where else to poop.
The frat boy is crying now. His shoes were expensive. Somewhere, someone else is wearing them, beneficiary of a good deal at street price, maybe even bartered for a favor. That's the street economy. Things come and go around here. Someone gives the frat boy a slice of pizza. Looks like sausage.
Milton comes back tomorrow, as he does always, begging for money.
He has more verse on his tongue.
Where did you get those shoes? I ask.
I found them like I found God, he says.
They do look mysterious but are too big.
But what does shoe size matter in this footprint of the world?