The Chance of Promise

A bird had pooped in his outstretched hand. He inspected it (curiously without malice) breathing the deep wide-nosed breath of a man 400 years free. For as they say it is a sign of luck, he thought to himself. Walking with an exaggerated bounce and letting the taste of spring flick across his tounge, he passed a garish pub with a clover shaped sign. He waved not to the policeman, but to the baying horse lifting its shoes for an early morning stretch. He passed a construction site pausing to watch an undersized rat horde an acorn between its teeth. He thought how squirrels too are harder in New York. He came to his building and pushed past the revolving doors, no black cats no rain clouds. He pressed a button and the steel doors parted for him. He got in and he knew and he knew and he knew and he knew, and he knew it would be a good day, for the elevator was empty that morning.