he's not there

a man
on the corner
with a ruddy
face,
chopped
blonde
hair, like
wheat,
has a sign
and a red can.
everyday
he's out
there on
the median
silently
pacing back
and forth
towards
the nod and
open windows.
his head is
bowed, his
bristled
chin nearly
touching
his chest.
a dollar here,
some change.
all in a days
work.
then he disappears.
you feel better
for some reason
when he's
not there.