From Coney Island

There's a man standing in a yellow raincoat, using the newspaper sleeping bags as a roof, allowing the sludge of conversation to drip down onto his boots where it can be more easily stomped out, and stomped out, and walked on and dissipated and stomped out until finally it melds into all the rest. They look just like everything else. No one there to catch them. No one.

And then everyone got together and whispered to everyone and I could feel they're button eyes on me.