Don't close that door--It creaks too loudly

So, this is a thing that I wrote and I hope you love it to pieces. I rather like it.

Yes

By: David Mathis

A car rumbled by, sputtering a little. It seemed on its last foot. The crosswalk was busy with walking people and an old crippled man, wheeling himself on a wheelchair. Later his scraggly, white-bearded face would show up in my dreams, pleading with me to help him. In the dreams I would have, he would be sad, tears streaming down his contorted and creased visage. The wind blew leaves into my face as I quickened my step – the crosswalk sign was fading, flashing a warning hand. Halt. I climbed the sidewalk, trudged into the ceaseless stream of people and was buffeted by shoppers and businessmen in too much of a hurry to apologize for running into me. A bluebird landed lightly on one of the power lines crisscrossing the road and it chirped once; it was a shrill and sharp sound to contrast the dull roar of horns, footsteps, and breathless conversations that were instantly spoken into a present that slipped into the past and was blown away in the wind like the leaves in my face. My breath poured out of my mouth in clouds of steam that were whipped away by a violent and jealous wind, my hair obscured my vision as I marched on. I had no idea to what end I walked this crowded sidewalk today, against the flow of traffic. A man stood against a building. He shivered as he clutched a cup of coffee to his chest as if it would keep warm his heart. His gaunt features etched themselves into my mind like the aftershock of lightning on the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a car horn honk, a bus stop with a foul hiss, an excited exclamation from some child. I could see his little hand, clutching a cup of hot cocoa, oversized coat swallowing the child like a python. His tiny little stick legs would be almost entirely covered by extra coat and he would be happy, reveling in his naiveté because he didn’t have leaves blowing in his face, or images of old and broken people, or hair stinging his face in the cruel wind. He didn’t have a tear-streaked face, iced from winter winds or dark hands reaching to pluck his soul from his body, or if he did, he wouldn’t realize it. He would catch the leaves in his mitted hands and his mother would tell him to hurry up because she had to get back to work. I wandered onto a doorstep connected to the sidewalk. I stared at the door it led up to. It was green, chipped, rickety. The door held no warmth. The concrete steps were a shock of cold. I sat on them and I watched my breath leak from my tired face. The steam blew away and disappeared. People once thought that pesticides were safe for the environment because after being sprayed, the fumes disappeared from sight, only, it didn’t work that way: the fumes were still there, but invisible to the naked eye. Maybe my breath was the same way. Maybe I couldn’t see it, but it was still there. Maybe all the world was covered in exhaled breath and insecticide. The concrete was cold.