I saw an old man by the river.

I saw an old man by the river. I wonder how he feels to be surrounded by tourists, youths, lovers, friends and families that were passing by the streets of Clarke Quay and yet he was alone with a bag of empty cans. I wonder how no one notices him and he, notices no one but moved, silently, laboriously, from one bin to another. I wonder how much he could earn from collecting drink cans. The thin aluminum made a neat crushing sound when he pressed them gently between the soles of his worn slippers and the hard concrete ground. I wonder how strange he looked, with red, purple and blue strobe lights flickering onto his hunched back, directed from the bars and pubs behind him that are packed with people less than half his age and if he knew how these lights were shining upon him and how his shadow appeared to others –one hand with a huge plastic bag, another with a metal tong. A group of smokers stood precariously beside him, not wanting to go too close, yet compelled to stub out their cigarettes properly; they had no choice but to be near to the bins where the old man was. I wonder if I could help him and if he would accept my help because why not everybody loves money. But then I thought that it is disrespectful and that it robs him of his personal agency that is his work as a tin can collector. I stop wondering. I start admiring.