A man in handcuffs is laying, his face sidways, pressed againest the sidewalk, he tells me he likes my boots as I am walking past. I thank him because I am uncertain what else I should say, I stop myself from wishing him a nice day. The contents of his life is tumbled across the concrete; a collection of pennies, a tin sucrets box, a pyrex piece of pipe, three nickles and a dime. In my head I am gathering these things up, thinking it is not enough, placing everything back into the pocket of his jacket which lays forlorn and stripped a few feet away. The two police officers ignore the exchange, nothing is surprising or out of the ordinary, we are all used to the images the varying degrees of dignity and lack of it. I am trying to be harder, tough on the outside, while keeping something gentle wrapped around the soul, a pashima of some sort.