Grandfather Walter

So right now I'm brainstorming ideas for a story. When I went to the Drop Inn I saw a man who looked like he was from 18th Century England due to his demeanor and the way his white hair fell. He was an old man, probably in his 70s. I have this idea of a story about a girl who is grieving the loss of her grandfather, whom she was very close with. I think throughout the story she becomes delusional with grief. She sees a man on the street who looks just like her grandfather. He is a homeless man. I don't really know where the story is going to go yet but there will be the perspective of her and the perspective of him. Here is a little bit from the homeless man's perspective.

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The man in the front of the room dragged on again, like so many other days before their meals. “Don’t steal, don’t push in line, wait your turn…” He acted like a preacher, holding power over the homeless men who sat below him in the church-like pews. After all this time, with the same group of people, one would think that they knew the drill. Why must he say the same rant before every meal? Not to mention that there really wasn’t much to steal in this particular soup kitchen anyway. There were metal tables lined up like a middle school cafeteria. The volunteer servers stood uncomfortably in the back of the room behind heated stovetops and glass shields, protecting themselves from the unwashed men. He was sure they didn’t bring any valuables, for fear of him self and the others.
When the speech from the manager finally came to a close, the first isle stood up and filed in line for food. He was hunched over in the fifth isle. Not that it mattered much to him anyways, the soup today looked like slop found in a pig trough. The room became noisy, erupting from the jives and raspy laughs from the others. They were so loud and always talking. How they had the energy, he didn’t quite know. But they were all friends and he always ate alone. He liked to fill up and get out, as quick as his gait would allow. It probably had to do with the fact that he was the only white man in the room. His thin gray hair which curled up at his shoulders, hung like a moping hound dog compared to their tight ebony knots that sat at the tops of their heads.
“Get up, William,” Rick poked at his arm. The line of men were standing, waiting for him to move. He pushed off the wood armrest with effort, his muscles no longer as strong as they once were, and continued to wait.
When he turned towards the food station, he made eye contact with a young girl standing behind the glass. She was staring at him, even as she ladled soup into a styrofoam bowl, with her eyes full of wonder and a smirk across her face. He had seen that face before. But why would he know this young girl, whose wealth was clearly shown in her button-down blouse? He looked down, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with remembrance. It was on 8th street. She was across the street, yanking on her mother’s sleeve and pointing towards him. She kept repeating the word “Grandpa” and pleading with her mother. He looked up again, just to make sure it was the right girl. She was still gazing at him. He wished he understood what about him fascinated her so much.

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I don't really like working in the first person but I think it may be more effective than the 3rd person. Any thoughts?