My friend Charlie Popovich was in love but once, once like a hundred times, and he could not get beyond it.
No one recognized their brother in the tramp who was slowly dying next to a half empty cardboard coffee cup.
Hey, Charlie, a prostitute would call to him, thinking that he is resting, with fading blue eyes half-open, seemingly looking at the top of the tower on St. Patrick's Church.
Two blocks down, an elegant lady was taking a taxi, heading toward the business section of Lower Town, lost in her thoughts. She wasn't even aware that the blue-eyed tramp, Charlie Popovich is abandoning town, slowly and quietly. The very same Charlie who some twenty years ago with that same lady, now a salt-and-pepper businesswoman, enjoyed himself on the rides and beaches of Connie Island, believing that he found happiness in the biggest city in America.
At around ten past three, like an ailing pigeon, a seemingly ordinary homeless man passed away in the shadows of the cathedral. His exhausted soul had been liberated, flying upward toward the roofs of the gray buildings, joining the flock of birds which headed into the sky.