It’s a funny thing, but I notice dogs look at me more than people do. Big brown pedigreed ones in the front seats of their air-conditioned Range Rovers. Street dogs, gardener’s dogs, little old lady dogs.    

A beautiful man, thin as a minnow, wades across into traffic. The skin stretched over this fish of a man is deep ebony. It glistens in the blvd., its mid-summer heat. Shimmering incandescent, like nobody else’s. Hung from a string around his neck is a silver whistle. He pushes it into his mouth and stops traffic for himself. He was effective and he was graceful. In his left hand is a deep-sea fishing pole with no reel. His right pulled a torn black canvas suitcase. His glasses were silver, the lens’ chrome. He was Stevie Wonder on the cover of Mirrors to my soul except all he could play was his whistle, but he blew it damn well. Too many beautiful people never get a chance in this world and he was one of them. Goodbye to you and good luck. May the fishing hole in your next life be full.    

Rich blvd. waders in Prada, all right. Lets hear it for the rich folk. Hip, hip, hooray! Except they jaywalk because they’re too lazy to walk 40 yards to the crosswalk. Funny, but not, people don’t honk at the Prada ladies. They only honk at the destitute and the man of silver with the whistle.