I assume my old neighbor man to be an alcoholic, he so resembles the ones I have loved. empty handed to holding a brown bag, he walks tall with a slight gimp up and down Stillwater Avenue, the weight of his right leg pulling him from his apartment to Tim’s Little Big Store, and back again. he wears grayed khaki pants, baseball cap over silver oiled hair, Members Only jacket, the hard darkened face of an ancient fisherman or pool shark. when I nod in passing he only stares back at me, like a memory of Spokane. tonight I see him at Johnny’s in dim light, seeming to sit in a room all his own. blocked off from the rest of the diner, his eyes closed, hands clasped together in front of his lips. I wonder if he’s praying. I hope he is praying. my boots in black slush, I hope the solitary neighbor man is with God always.