So I think I'll stop, so tired of mumbling and walking, slow collisions of dust and lung and those other things arriving out of air like a sneeze, how everyone needs help now and then. But not now. Downtown, in the easy mingle of trash cans and the insane, there's a fear of angels that pack the missions, that hover in the sleepy corners of an eye. And whoever lives in a paper tent folds with it and falls, a mean vision of comfort in the sway of city traffic. I think to ignore myself long enough is to remove every bandage. And like Claude Rains I have a list of bruises and of kisses, a favorite table away from the noise. But when I sit with coffee and retrieve daylight from some other hour I'm like everyone else bearing the weight of a fragrant length of sky. And were it easy to rise and touch the window I'd count cars nudging home, the remarkable faces waiting for soup.