The moon is sailing above the city in a big smiling face, and the people stroll past the park, towards the next bar, restaurant, club, or wherever the good people go. I sit on the bench with arms spread open as if wrapped around two of my very good friends. I watch the people and the apartments and office suites, way up high, and the occasional window burning the blue dim of a television set. I have rum to drink, and I think about the unfortunate fortunates out there and it makes me sigh.
“Old man, old man, down by the sea shore,” I sing to put my mind somewhere else. “Where could you gone? Old man, old man, down by the sea shore, where got you gone?”

I have a good, raspy blues voice, and I can impress Louis Armstrong if he would just come back to life and join me.

Somewhere I lose track of myself and my voice climbs too high across these buildings and the next thing I know I swig the bottle and two policemen are walking towards me. The thing with police officers is, unless you run, they never say anything unless they are close enough to speak in a regular, supper time voice.

“What you like to hear, officers? I know it all.”

They smile at me. I think they smile. ”You can’t be in the park after dark. That’s why we put up the barriers.”

“I didn’t see any barriers, officers.” But I found a gap in them, earlier, and walked right through. One starts to disagree. He’s about to put me in my place, but I cut him off. “Officers, I don’t mean to cause anyone any harm, but I do believe I have the right to sing here in this lonely park. What do you want to hear? I’ll sing you a song for no charge.”

They don’t want to hear my songs, but they let me keep my bottle as long as I kindly move along.

As I kindly move along I pass all sorts of people, mostly nice, well-to-do folk, some a little drunk and happy, and other bums like me, trying to fend off the November cold, all wrapped up under the construction awnings. They should know the good beds are in the subways where it’s warm, as long as you bring a blanket, or a newspaper to cover your face.

“Down man, old man, see the sea shore,” now I don’t know what I am singing, but, just like Louis, I make it up as I go along. It doesn’t matter because I feel warm and the cold air feels good, and up ahead the shadows on the pavement play some pretty tricks on me. A bus drives past and shines its light in my face, and I can’t see for a good minute. After my eyes settle the shapes start to pop back into and out of focus. I see this something, grey and black like a giant cat’s paw print. I see this ragged edge like a giant holding a tin can. I don’t know. The dark can be beautiful sometimes. Frightening, though. I take a closer look, and slowly the shapes all disappear, change back into a pile of garbage bags, and a wall with some posters tagged to it of a woman’s head, cocked backwards, mouth open, song notes blaring, hair twisted black and white. She’s singing a love song to her cat, while her Mama gets raped in the other room.