The Fourth Man Poem by James Fitzpatrick

In front of me, haar like February breathes bellowed from the tightened portholes of three men, sat on a withered bench. They each flicked hardened crumbs from rip ridden bags, on to pigeon dappled stonework. Neither talked to another. They spoke in complete silence.

To my left, a dapper young man with a bulging bag of fresh bread took a seat. He sat silhouetted by the fountain's spray glowing in morning light, where it seemed a mini rainbow encompassed his very being. Shrouded in a prism of fabulous colours, he broke bread with his soft hands.

At this point, some of the street wise birds made across for more generous portions, all to the dismay of the local gentility. They flapped massive stray gusts of fountain drizzle upon three sets of well shined shoes. The men just stared. Still, and not a word.

Within minutes, the young man's bag was emptied upon the greedy cackling claque, and a Nikon camera flashed and reflashed the devouring hoard. With this, he was gone. Not so much as a nod, as loose feathers scuttled around his dancing feet. In the lull, I too left, after pocketing my unused pen, avoiding the sharpened beaks scrapping over the stiff crusts, bouncing around brass feet.