The homeless man in the alley wakes up again. He wakes up and he gets up and he wipes the drool from his chin and he crashes down the alley swearing. He crashes down the alley and ends up on Bloor Street slumped in front of a bank building. He keeps thinking of foxes for some reason. And small birds. Parrots. He pisses himself and the warmth spreads around his pants until it becomes cold and he shivers. He remembers the woman he passed on the street earlier – a foxy woman, come to think of it. In her high heels. And then, later, a man who smelled like s**t.
“Got any money?” the man says to no one. It is empty on the street. Everyone home in bed.
Home, the man thinks. In bed. Safe and sound. He sometimes remembers what that feels like. And he sometimes doesn’t.
