Behind the Window

The house was a ramshackle affair.  The clapboards either having long since rotted away or never applied at all, the outer walls of the house were weathered plywood and flapping tar paper.

Inside the single front window glowed a barren light bulb hanging from an electrical cord.  Though I was too far from the house to see interior details, I imagined a lopsided wooden table with a set of mismatched chairs beneath that single bulb.

Seated in one of those chairs, his back toward the stove to absorb what heat the gas burners had to offer, would no doubt be a ruddy-faced man wearing fingerless gloves. Spooning steaming oatmeal from a bowl of yellow plastic the man would be planning another day of activities geared toward only one objective - surviving the next day in his life.