A Christmas tree made of dinnerware. Golden garlands mixed with forks, knives, plates and bowls. Surrounded by clean, modern restaurants; filled with old men in British scarves walking with ladies carrying too many shopping bags. Christmas lights hang between two streetlights, and pigeons roost on the line, which droops under their weight. A homeless man sits on the curb below it, huddled over protecting his stomach from the withdrawing heroin. He doesn’t see anyone who passes him, which is a coincidence, because they don’t see him, either.

But on one of his many leanings into the floor, he looks to the sky and sees a blue twinkle above his head. He saw the same glimmer of despair in the eyes of death when he saw him last time.

Ha, you’ll never get the money, asshole.