Wild Irish Rose

I've lived in this Brooklyn apartment for 222 days now. Every morning the block wino has started his day on one of the street's stoops (usually mine) with a fifth of Wild Irish Rose in a paper bag. He's there by nine every morning, has no front teeth, can barely speak, and has been apparently homeless since the old laundromat around the corner shut down after the owner's husband died.

Every time I step in or out of my building I recieve the exact same wave - a lifting of the spindly left hand that appears to require all of the energy conserved since my last passing. His right hand remains wrapped loosely around the bagged bottle in his lap, often hours after it's been emptied. Accompanying the wave is a vague whisper that escapes the gap in his teeth. It's mostly a heavy breath out with slight vocal manipulation. It took me over a month of these passings to realize that he's saying "alright".

I'd like to see him when he was my age.