No one notices the man on the corner.

And why should they?

Everything from his coat that was once white, but was now a sickly pale gray, to his shoes, with duct tape over the various holes, to keep his feet partially dry, blends in. Day in and day out, he is there, on the corner under the stop sign that has been vandalized so many times, it is now nearly unintelligible.

He has his hat, a tattered affair with strings hanging off of it. Maybe it used to be nice, once upon a time, but now it is an object of poverty, just like everything he owns. He holds it out, hoping for some money. But he never gets any.

Because no one notices the man on the corner.

And why should they?