Well, shoot

It’s almost funny. The last thing that’s kissed me in a month is the rain. Steel girders and lonely sidewalks. I shift the grime from foot to foot. Ashes to ashes. Bacteria squiggles in the dirt and grainy picturesque fluidity at each step. In rivulets, it jumps from angle to angle. Recompense? Please. A man sits at the corner with a board and a bag of broken dreams. I know change won’t help him. At least not the kind that gets stamped out from machines. But then again, is there another type of change? I don’t know anymore. I never did, in fact. I sit down by the man. He doesn’t even offer a second glance. What are societal quirks to a man who has constant thoughts of eating his own shit every time his stomach growls? He even scoots over. The only thing this man has left is space and he gives it to me. It doesn’t affect me. I’ve been offered plenty by strangers, but I still say thanks. Well, here we are stranger. Unknown friend. We sit together in an ancient ritual of sympathy. We break the bread of silence. No words are shared, doubtless no thoughts are common. No special bond. I get up in half an hour, having felt nothing. The only constant is the rain and the dirt. And my eyes. They remain stern.