Davie Street

He walks down the street, an aging briefcase resting over his shoulder. His gait is awkward, unsteady, angry. Filthy trousers and unkempt hair, he mutters at those crowding his sidewalk. Yelling lyrics to a song only he knows at the couple with the smiling faces.

A grey Saab pulls to the curb, honks, oblivious. He turns on one foot, unsteady but ready, his coat swinging, upturned arm holding his brown bag against an ear. Shouts, a string of curses around his lined face, alongside musical melodies.

Behind me, a young tourist turns to his friend. "I wonder if he realizes his ghetto blaster is a suitcase."

I smile. Cross the road and walk home.