As stars go, of course it is rather nondescript, small, middle aged stuck in a distant corner of a not all that impressive galaxy.
Yet each morning it sweeps the sky storing all of its kin, even the biggest and brightest, into its own celestial closet where they will remain locked away until it decides it needs a rest and lets them return to once again paint the sky.
He leans against the wall outside the Prêt à Manger witting with his dog on the old Mexican blankets that look uniquely out of place on a cool London morning. He sips the now fetid coffee in its Styrofoam cup, its Burger King logo and temperature warning. His hair is long, mostly gray with streaks of white, his beard white with swaths of blond, he looks as though he just stepped down the plank of the great sailing ship, returned from a voyage save for his tattered, stained Manchester United sweatpants. I put 50p in his metal box against my better judgment and stroke behind the ears of the placid dog. “May you be many times praised” he sputters, through teeth stained tobacco brown, “for with more like you, Rufus here, and I shall later enjoy a fine repast. May Saint Dymphna be praised.” In the taxi to Paddington Station I wonder who my patron might be, if Jews only had Saints.