The tramp waits at the bus stop. The bus arrives. A bent, old woman with a crochet hat alights. The tramp is picking at the crowns of his teeth with a dirty fingernail. There’s a can of Special Brew on the red plastic seat beside him. It is half empty, and warm. He wears a faded blue baseball cap pulled down over this eyes, a long beard. His swollen belly is covered by a ragged vest, encrusted in dirt and earth. He has scarecrow legs and beach sandals on his feet. The bus pulls away.
It’s coming up to midday. The sun is out. The tramp has been awake for most of the night, and saw the dawn rise in an alcoholic haze. For an hour or two he trudged through the empty streets searching trash cans for half eaten packaged sandwiches, and cardboard to make a groundsheet should he want to sleep this evening. The tramp reaches for his beer and takes a small sip, he then opens his mouth wide, licks his gums and sticks out his tongue. He is a free man, and the possibilities for him are endless.
Another two or three buses come and go. The possibilities are too many to choose from. He rubs his belly and crosses his scarecrow legs. He doesn’t have to be anywhere, he doesn’t have to be anyone. He isn’t anything, except a tramp. Unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed.
No comments:
Post a Comment