PO Box 1980

I sat on the low concrete wall near the Seventh Avenue entrance to Penn Station. In front of me was a small van, and scattered around it were several Orthodox Jewish men with their dark clothing and long side-locks. They were speaking to passersby and handing out leaflets. To my right at the curb, a street drummer played his snare, made his pitch and his dollar. Farther down the street stood two cops, hands clasped behind their backs, quietly talking, watching the crowd and the traffic. Close to me on the wall, a rumpled, unshaven man enjoyed the sun, the spring day, and an occasional pull at his pint. Icing was put on the scene by the passing pretty girls and attractive women in their spring clothing.