An old man sat on a front porch wearing a white undershirt and worn grey denim pants. The porch was the kind that was one complete slab of concrete, marred only by the crack which ran from the south corner of the house, edging outwards towards the five uneven steps. The man kicked his toes against the crack, feeling the swell that decades' worth of heat had caused to form. Using an old toe he flicked out the loose chunks and kicked them off into the high grass. To his right, a screen door hung wide open, the black aluminum tapping against the brick of the house. Inside, barefoot feet could be heard slapping against linoleum. Occasionally the man would look over his shoulder into the house, squinting as if able to see through the walls into some distant room. Turning back towards the street, his face would curl up and his belly would bounce in a silent laugh. Resting his hands in between his legs, the man would watch the goingson of the street, moving his head left then right, sometimes fast, sometimes slow as if carefully tracing an arc. He could see the whole street from his position. He knew when new people were on the block--he could pick out those that were lost. Usually he would just sit and look, sometimes nod if someone passed that he knew. When the mailman would come up to the house, the man would stand and walk down to the street to take his mail, smile and say a few words--usually about either weather or the neighbors--and then head back to his seat in the shade.