My Cardboard Balcony

Derelict, Tuxedo Man by Belinda Roddie He practically lives in the shoddy jacket. His belly, once hanging past his leather belt, is now shriveled and lifeless, without so much as a scrawny steak on a stick for him. He steals graham crackers from the closest gas station, but he can never grab the marshmallows, and besides, if he heats those up, the sugar stains his vest something awful. You're a derelict, tuxedo man. The rose in your lapel is three years left of romantic. Its petals wilted long ago. And so did your smile.

Albert took delight in the sweet comforts of the bakery. He ate all the cannoli once in just a single day, and while usually the owner would be somewhat irritated by that, Albert paid him one buck extra for each sweet he ate. It was clear that the fifty-something man was an excellent addition to the list of patrons that the bakery still had. It had almost gone out of business before.