By Isaac Butler
There is man.
He lives in my neighborhood.
He makes shoes from garbage.
He isn't homelss. He's French.
This is his profession.
He has a storefront with signs on the windows.
They say that he will teach you the fine art of garbage-shoe manufacture.
He wanders the streets at times.
Low-slung jeans, v-neck shirt, his blaack hair the exact shape of the Hindenberg on fire.
He's sometimes accompanied by his Chinese girlfriend.
She wears the hippiest of hippy clothes, just almost hiding her pregnant belly.
Across the street from the storefront, the Gowarnus Houses loom.
There, a mad Russian used to live.
He patrolled Hoyt shouting DA! DA! DA! riding his bicycle topless.
Going through everyone's trash.
Leaving the blocks strewn with it.
They could've been in cahoots, but no.
Frenchy the Garbage Shoe Manufacturere showed up right as the economy was tanking.
And The Mad Russian was long gone by then.