From across the street behind plate glass, past steaming herbal tea you can just see a crimson nose twitch at diesel-filled air. One hand rolls back a ragged grey blanket, to expose a bowl-shaped chest. Perhaps that’s where copper coins were tossed as the night passed. From under the blanket early bugs are snapped from torn jeans, then shimmied up hips discreetly draped by nubby wool. Knotted hands tug on white cotton sox, a sporting veil for long-grounded prayers. A sudden crouch and pivot, to freeze and stare at the plate glass echo of unruly hair, only to vanish back under the woolen blanket. So starts another long day, housed on barren cement.