When sudden blossoms wilt and fade, and springtime withers under desperate suns, the common man may notice a shift in temperature within…or…may picture the autumn a promising season, in light of that terrible sun. It is in these times that our common man, armed with umbrella and concealed laptop, spends his mornings walking to the train station, pricked by ordinary thoughts like the flowering roses along his route.
“Good morning, George.”
“Good morning, Albert.
And a lovely day it is, although George is wearing his bright red shirt again…the one with the ever present black-as-death tie…
“Would you say it is a good morning, then?”
“Oh, I would indeed.”
And rather than smile back, the taller man, his black tie all too short, clips a rose from a bush and holds it askew.
“Rather pretty thing, that.”
Rather pretty my donkey’s rear, it is as sad a rose as I have ever seen…
“Could be another hot one.”
My God the man is dense…Next thing- you know- he’ll be asking about the train: ‘Will you be going on the train this morning, Albert?’ Oh, what a tedious little man. A tedious big man. Well, you know what I mean, don’t you? Can you imagine this big lumux of a creature with that little wife of his?
“How is that wife of yours?”
The tall man raked his thinning hair.
“She’s asleep.”
I’d be asleep too- must be miserable being married to-
“I’ll tell her you were asking.”
“Thanks, George. Always nice to know someone is looking out for her.”
And with that our common man left his common neighbor to do some common gardening…while the sun rose ever higher, the maze of streets seemed longer, and our train started boarding at Gate 2.
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I have written this little fiction clip in response to a recent blog written by Java Girl-
landofblogging.wordpress.com.
It is only a beginning, and- in the sluggishness of my heat-drugged mind- not my best description (I feel like I am telling too much, not showing enough). Do you agree? What do you think? Please comment. Should I continue with it?
(I retain all rights- other than posting, quoting, and commenting- however humble this piece may become.)
something poetic 