by Bruce Rowe
coffee, gone cold, in a paper cup
He shuffles down
4th street,
taking no more than a few inches per step.
His skin is
leathered and brown. He is clothed in light brown khaki’s and a frayed green
flight jacket.
He shuffles his
way to a nook in a doorway, 3830 4th Street, and slumps down to rest
from his long travels.
He draws a
cigarette from a coat pocket and illuminates the unfiltered end with shaking
hands.
Sunspots
decorate his alopecic scalp where hair once adorned.
His beard is
white and long, tousled and unkempt.
He observes
pedestrians meander by, himself going unnoticed.
After a space of
time, two sonatas, and one ballad from my radio, he slowly rises to his unsure
but steady feet.
He drops his
cigarette on the sidewalk, charred to the filter. With two clumsy steps
extinguishes it with the sole of his tattered shoe.
He appears to scuff
his way toward my vehicle. I look down to read the book I held…or at least
pretend to.
After a few small
steps, he turns back to the store from where he rested. Relief and shame
overwhelm me.
He makes it to
the clear store window. In the clean glass, he sees his reflection.
He brushes the
surface of his ragged locks and beard with his soiled fingers.
He smiles.
Tears well in my
eyes.
He slowly turns
in a new direction, shuffling on his way, smiling.
There he goes…a
child of God.
About the author
Bruce lives in southern California and has self-published. He is now seeking to have short stories, poems and flash stories published.
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