The Old Man Who Collected Cans

He walks.
A lone solitary figure, staggering. Staggering.
Dragging, dragging. Not just his feet, but his only faithful companion.
Both torn, tattered.
Weathered, beaten.

Heaving. Sniffling.
Muscles strain at the weight of the sack
as the two blend into one on the empty streets.

Ahha! A can!
Cheap metal clinks against tarmac,
its sheen and glossiness gone, just like the old man himself.

Eyes glisten. Claws curl.
He stumbles towards it, wild.
Hands hurriedly grab, fingers pressed against dented metal.
Fingernails, dirty and yellow,
scrape the cement, causing bits to fly in all directions.

Glee. Ecstactic! Warmth blooms through his cold heart.
Eyes flutter. Toothless smile revealed.
Wrinkled cheeks lifted. Jolt of energy.

He clutches his prize, before carefully placing it into the beckoning bag.
Shuffling, shuffling.

The search continues.