It is not a fair but children are playing there, On swing sets and red asphalt surrounded by overgrown weeds and tall swaying trees. It is not fair but an elder gentleman sleeps there, In gold buckled black loafers and dress socks, Basketball shorts with his arms folded in a knot. It is a moral affair but we play there.
She is in purple and he is in green. They talk of binding spirits then join hands. His voice is low and rumbling as he says the words. They break hands and stand together. His voice, still low and rumbling, is that of a purposeful counselor. She leans away with her hands clasped in front of her. She is smiling politely so. Sitting down, she keeps her distance -politely so.
The dissolution of bliss came with the smell of burnt nicotine on the breeze. The sudden appearance to two women in brightly colored striped shirts cemented it. Blocking my view, they talk of shoes that don’t fit and where they will go next. Puff, puff, more nicotine floating in my direction.
I left the window of my consciousness open to the external world and a strange bird flew in. Wearing a red bandanna with bloodshot eyes he asked, ” What you writing?” “Something for work,” I replied. Sitting down beside me he said, “what you writing for work?” The smell of alcohol permeated his oily skin. “Honestly, I am just trying to talk to you,” he continued. “It is for work,” I repeat pretending to gather my things. Sensing that I was about to leave, the strange bird stood up and spread his wings. As he started to fly away, he turned towards me one last time and said, “you can always learn something from anyone.”