was in the dead of an epic Ottawa winter. He was perched on the sidewalk near the corner of Metcalfe and Slater scribbling into his tattered notebook as swarms of pedestrian traffic hurried by to make it to work before 9 a.m. Hardly taking a moment's notice to check the progress of his hat or plead for spare change, Pottie seemed more interested in writing and smoking his cigarette, which he sucked on vigorously. I was alarmed that somebody would have the gall to challenge the zeal of minus-25 temperatures by writing outside with a bare hand. from The Charlatan: The street poet's healing words
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