he shuffled up a pair of surfer slippers and an old tweed blazer. asked you for a quarter and you looked the other way. he leaned up against the tow zone sign and just in time for you to avert your eyes said "good morning sir. have a nice day." she wears four wool winter hats all year round and mumbles and sometimes screams. he wears a coat made of burlap sacks and sits in parking lots, never asking anyone for anything. he's the old black guy with the shopping cart. she's the old lady with the bright blue sweat pants. they're the two young white squatter kids with dirty undershirts and rotten teeth. he's the guy who hangs out underneath the overpass shouting curse words at passing motorists, or the guy who passed in my alley, who drank until his life made any sense. he's the hustler on the train. or his four accomplices, living on three tattered playing cards and slight hand. he's darron in front of 7-11 on walton and state. she's babs up and down on belmont right by the train. he's buddy and his wife in uptown, by the aragon, he's andy selling streetwise at the white hen in boys town. he was ed from southside who gave me cigarettes and hope at wallgreens on belden and clark where inspiration dies alone. yeah, these are the people in your neighborhood. they're the people you don't see when you're walking down the street. they're the people you don't see each day
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