Wednesday, August 18, 2004

weary

i arrive here and my mind feels used, and i am emptier of ambition and direction and energy than i was before the day began, and took me through the work of that quaint glass place, and my hands are tight and twisted and the hunching of my back has left me aching, sighing in the sun. the sun, still high, still banging us with shadows, strikes us in the face as we are walking on this ground. a boy approaches me, as i walk in the direction of its shadows, and he, squinting at me, asks my shadow for change. i tell him no because i can tell him no other, for i have no extra for anyone these days; but he has been around. he seems as though he's from another country: his hair is wild, his face long, his body stretched and wiry, and now for the first time in the sunlight i hear his voice; high and narrow, wiry like himself. i pass behind a column as i tell him no. i am approached by someone every day, multiple times a day, for change in this town; and every time i am forced to refuse, for i cannot; cannot bear to give to one when i cannot give to the next one and the next one. he sighs, perhaps the hundredth refusal today. at this time of sunset, it's getting near the hundredth refusal today for us all.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home