Observation of the Man in the Park

A cool autumn evening breeze brushed by me and the chilliness numbed my nose and stirred the brightly painted leaves on the ground before me as I watched distantly. Jake lay timidly cuddled upon his tattered bedraggled street bench; the pale brown upholstery ripped and exuberantly worn down by those who had sojourned there before him. He wrapped himself tightly in his once green army jacket, now faded to a light grey, covering an untucked, torn, dilapidated, and sweat-stained T-shirt underneath it. He worn an old pair of denim blue jeans that were shredded in the knees and rested three inches above his boney ankles, exposing the charity he depended upon. His dingy charcoal-grey matted hair was oily and unkept as if he hadn't known a comb or a shower since his earlier days at war. His eyes filled with despair and loneliness as if he realized a lack of purpose in his life. His long, pointed, slender nose was fixed centered above a crooked mouth with little wrinkles lines at the cornera giving his face the character of someone who used to smile often, but the firm set of his square jaw revealed a portrait of a man who knew only failure.

His decrepit fragile body stands up and retreats into the safeguard of the warm neighborhood McDonalds; out of curiosity I prudently follow. Upon entering the warm silent building, I glance around the dimly lit dining facility at the collection of adolescent girls and boys gossiping silently about their absent friends, nuclear families enjoying their weekly treat of chicken fingers with exotic dipping sauces, and a teenage employee attempting to grasp a carpet sweeper with his fry-greased hands. As each of their gazes wondered the room curiously observing the quaint surroundings, their eyes conveniently skipped over the socially unacceptable figure in the corner, but I saw him clearly!

With both hands resting lightly