Broadway and Third
Sitting on a wooden box that once belonged to some piece of furniture, the sign at his feet says something like "Please help me with a few coins or a sandwich". His beard is not white like Santa's but grey like a stormy skyline. People pass him by at the speed of light, he sees their shoes and feet, blurring and running, high heels and shiny office leather shoes, multi-colored snickers and up the leg under the skirt tall laced boots, smash-proof work shoes and pretty tiny flowery kiddy shoes.
His eyes wonder how many different kind of shoes there are on the planet. If he only knew... Tyre-shoes, wooden-shoes, leaf-shoes or skin-shoes, there are some for every taste and every use, every culture and every continent. But his sign says it all: he need food and/or money to do just that: survive. And believe me, he's not one of these fake bums coming from Eastern Europe we've got here in Europe, he was born in the Bronx, raised in the street and will probably die there too.
His life a series of mishaps and unfortunate mornings, hair on the soup if you like, or slug in your lettuce. His future one of sitting on a wooden box right in the middle of the world's frenetic, sometimes frantic energy and wealth. His gaze on us one of sorrow and resignation, his mind someplace far away, a beach seen on a magazine cover long ago or maybe some farm lost in the mountains of Italy or Greece. His dreams of French gastronomy and French wine, lying in a warm bed with a lady by his side he doesn't have to pay. On Broadway and Third, NYC, Marco the street philosopher keeps the music playing in his head to cope with the daily vision of so many shoes.
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