Written Pyramids

A man in a large, deep-blue shirt with a faded picture, and jeans stands over the water fountain at the circle, he squints into a compact mirror--the kind I bought for 99 cents in CVS and then threw away because the mirror was too small and the latch too hard to open--as he rinses shaving cream off of his face and runs his razor across the few remaining places.

Across the path which lets pedestrians enter the circle, there is a bench covered in blankets. The benches are unusually empty this morning, so I guess the blankets belong to him.

A father hurries his family through the cross-walk into the circle. They notice the man shaving.
"Personal hygiene. That's more than I can say for myself," he muses, running his hand over his chin.

On the other side of the circle, another family hurries through the opposite crosswalk.

As they walk into the circle, the mother, presumably in answer to a question, says, "it's a guy on a horse."

"George Washington," I mutter to myself. "It's George Washington. Can't you tell? Besides, you are in Washington Circle." I resist the urge to yell.