The man on the canal throws bread to the birds. The man on the canal throws bread to the birds from a black plastic bag he culled from a dumpster down the road. The man is not beardless, hatless, gloveless, possession-less, but he is nameless. At least, that is what the man wants you to think. The man sits too close to you on the bench waiting for the bus. The man, anxious, wraps the now-empty black plastic bag around and around his fingers, back again. The man quotes McCarthy under his breath, rocking, something about horses. The man stands up, moves away, comes back. The man takes his hand from the black plastic sack and puts it on your black leather bag, your black leather leg. You’re not, but the man is fearless, inhibition-less, the opposite of affectionate-less. Later, the man is sober, scruffy, sensual, smooth. You are unsure, is it the same man?