he enters the train.
he is regal, his head high.
from his neck and chin
springs forth a mighty
beard of matted coils, dense and
black. he has no shoes.
broken bags cover
his broken feet, but he walks
with Grace and Purpose.
he parts the crowd, a
sea of judgement and contempt, and
stands beside the door.
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3 comments:
you write about the characters of the street so beautifully.
i find i become fascinated with various visual archetypes, lately, it has been animal road kill.
i'm with you on the animal road kill. so grotesque and beautiful, like edouard manet (his still-lifes involving fish and meat are breath-taking) and francis bacon (obviously).
but tragic, of course. thinking about their last moments -- so alone and scary. i look at my little familiars and tear up at that the thought.
i meant to say 'scared' not 'scary'. doh.
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