Walletless Walter

15 09 2012

The man with the neon yellow utility vest walks hunchback down Patton Avenue. A walking stick tapping against the metal grates and birck bark leads him aimlessly. All he needs is stuffed in the thin plastic grocery bag. A stick, a bag, and feet. Eyes are not needed on this journey. Maybe the world’s injustice has blinded him or maybe he was spared from seeing dead sparrows and strangers’ frowns. The stick keeps time—tapping and ticking but never protecting.

Yesterday, under the bridge’s shadows his feet touched the other’s—actually crunched human bone before his mind realized reality. The whiff of whiskey and heavy decay told him to move his feet off and away. Again realizations are always slower than reality. Rancid breath and mocking laughter smacked his already scarred cheek as calloused hands stripped him of belt and being.

Later, crickets stopped chirping and walletless Walter walked on. Tapping and tapping—his heart was still beating. He smelled the river now—dead fish and sewage run off. He had a path. No more stumbles. His soul nor his stick could take much more. He thought the expectations of life lies like a landfill—a passive collection of rejections. Ahh. Such thoughts should remain in the heads of academics and poets—not one whose waist band is rolled up.

Tapping tapping. Silence. A precipice of decision. He grabs the moist hand introduces the world to him. Sirens scream light and sounds fill his sight. Fluorescents, lasers, and rays of white and red blind again but alas he has clean pants that fit and the water smells of fluoride and antiseptic. His stick is tapping elsewhere but tonight he will sleep in white sheets, white light, and white wonder. For tomorrow, he will choose to be blind again.




One response

30 06 2013
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Hi there, after reading this amazing piece of writing i am as well
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