The birds use their feather breasts
to sing-song
The world’s shadow dissipates, the buildings and cement
glisten
Across which a sole pidgeon struts
cockily
Until it stops for a moment, pecking the ground
spontaneously
The dawn, the vapor, my mouth, a
firmament
The atmosphere of soft sound
resonates
The early motors moan, the fellow faces all
mellow
With huddled bodies like comforters
animate
When he arrives at his destination, a bus stop, there is an old lady, homeless he assumes, dressed in layers, hand-knit gloves, blue and silver, a ratty leather jacket, burgundy, fur-trimmed boots, white trim and black boot, and a handmade cap, pink like the knitted scarf around her neck, pink like the rosy cheeks of her round face that looks up to him and smiles.
“Good morning, darling,” she beams.
“Morning, Miss.”
“Would you like to buy a pair of gloves, or a hat, or a scarf perhaps?” She leans over and pulls a wire-frame basket from the side of the bench. It is filled with knit accessories.
He thinks it over. It’s spring. The cold months are over. She’ll probably be sweltering by midday. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money. Sorry Miss. I’d really like to buy something. I just can’t.”
She is still just beaming, her eyes wide like her smile. “Well darling, since you are just so handsome, why don’t you just take one of these caps?” She shuffles through her basket, more like a crate really, and pulls a pink hat out suspending it in front of him while she continues to rummage with her other hand. “Do you like this one?” She asks without looking up. “Oh no, you wouldn’t. Boys don’t like pink. Of course, you just never know these days.” She pulls a red one out with silver trim. She pulls a blue one with a balled top. She pulls a black one with red trim and then stops. “It’s this one you like, isn’t it?” She wipes the fervorous intent from her face and beams again, glowing like a bundled Buddha. “Go on, take it, it’s yours darling.”
He takes it. “Thank you Miss. You're right, this is exactly what I like.” She looks at him with expectation. He nervously puts the cap on. It is warm and comforting. She smiles.
“Oh dear, her comes my bus,” she exclaims and presses the hats back into the basket, securing
to sing-song
The world’s shadow dissipates, the buildings and cement
glisten
Across which a sole pidgeon struts
cockily
Until it stops for a moment, pecking the ground
spontaneously
The dawn, the vapor, my mouth, a
firmament
The atmosphere of soft sound
resonates
The early motors moan, the fellow faces all
mellow
With huddled bodies like comforters
animate
When he arrives at his destination, a bus stop, there is an old lady, homeless he assumes, dressed in layers, hand-knit gloves, blue and silver, a ratty leather jacket, burgundy, fur-trimmed boots, white trim and black boot, and a handmade cap, pink like the knitted scarf around her neck, pink like the rosy cheeks of her round face that looks up to him and smiles.
“Good morning, darling,” she beams.
“Morning, Miss.”
“Would you like to buy a pair of gloves, or a hat, or a scarf perhaps?” She leans over and pulls a wire-frame basket from the side of the bench. It is filled with knit accessories.
He thinks it over. It’s spring. The cold months are over. She’ll probably be sweltering by midday. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money. Sorry Miss. I’d really like to buy something. I just can’t.”
She is still just beaming, her eyes wide like her smile. “Well darling, since you are just so handsome, why don’t you just take one of these caps?” She shuffles through her basket, more like a crate really, and pulls a pink hat out suspending it in front of him while she continues to rummage with her other hand. “Do you like this one?” She asks without looking up. “Oh no, you wouldn’t. Boys don’t like pink. Of course, you just never know these days.” She pulls a red one out with silver trim. She pulls a blue one with a balled top. She pulls a black one with red trim and then stops. “It’s this one you like, isn’t it?” She wipes the fervorous intent from her face and beams again, glowing like a bundled Buddha. “Go on, take it, it’s yours darling.”
He takes it. “Thank you Miss. You're right, this is exactly what I like.” She looks at him with expectation. He nervously puts the cap on. It is warm and comforting. She smiles.
“Oh dear, her comes my bus,” she exclaims and presses the hats back into the basket, securing