People Like Him.

"Good day," he calls out to passersby in the streets. Just like they would in the old-fashioned black and white movies.

Some people smile and wave.

"How ya doin', miss?"

Some people give an acknowledging nod.

"God bless you, sir."

Some people walk on.

"Beautiful sunshine we got today."

Some people take him to be a typical, friendly homeless man.

"Take care, ma'am."

Some people think he's trying to pick up girls.

He is not at all vulgar. He's dressed cleanly, casually leaning against a low stone wall. He looks like the kind of guy who would whistle down the streets with his hands in his pockets.

He doesn't care what they think.

He looks into the quiet little town, and sees only what he understands.

Not fathers or mothers or students or children or doctors or lawyers or store-owners or janitors...

Just people.

People like him. 

People that he wants to meet and get to know.

People that make him smile and feel happier.

People that care too often only about rushing to and from here and there.

Too preoccupied, too busy to see the beauty around them.

He's not looking for anything.

Not for love or money or sex or recognition or gratitude.

Companionship, maybe.

Just another person like him.

Yet, even on a beautiful cloudless Saturday afternoon...

When people have the time to walk a little more slowly, or stroll about a little more easily, or breathe in a little more deeply...

No one stops to have a conversation with him.

Not a single person.

"Have a good day now."