He—
I am the one to notice—squats behind the can 
                 riotous with trash, and sings without abash-
ment, as if his 
                   wants were laid upon the lid, a barmecide  
to passersby, imaginary feast, and we appreciate it.
We—the crush, the 
                 sidewalk-blind, progress as fantoccini, 
                       our strings flying, our legs of
wood clattering, hup to, his
begging discomfiting, until we—myself, at least—rush out of range.