The bakery step

On Monday mornings the man who owns the bakery on the corner sweeps his step before he unlocks the door, and he sweeps it in the same order every week, left to right, then the corner by the drainpipe twice, as if that corner owed him something.

I have watched him from this table for six years. This morning, with the storm windows up and the street slowed to half its sound, I noticed for the first time that he does not sweep toward the gutter. He sweeps toward the door, gathers whatever is there into his palm, and puts it in his apron pocket.

I do not know what he keeps. I did not go down to ask.