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~ a man on the road ~ usually doesn’t have much ~
~ in the weigh of money & possessions ~ what worth is positive energy ~
~ vitality of spirit ~ a predisposition toward hopes & dreams ~
~ the hunger & willingness to share them ~
~ in the weigh of money & possessions ~ what worth is positive energy ~
~ vitality of spirit ~ a predisposition toward hopes & dreams ~
~ the hunger & willingness to share them ~
He carries his dreams in a bucket. It is shot through with holes and leaking, splashing the tarmac, shoulder of the road in liquid arcs, tiny streams crisscrossing. He is a sight to see with his backpack and bucket, feet tripping forward, a staccato march toward what is left in the bucket, inadvertently, some of that which has been spilled along the way. He has half a sandwich left over from a stop at a Seven Eleven, an old army canteen full of cheap red wine, a ten dollar bill hidden in the sole of his shoe.
Round and round, he swings the bucket. The sun highlights a circle silhouette, the arc of his throw, reach of his dreams. Both hands on its handle, he flips it over, sits down on top of it, opens the canteen, takes a conservative swallow. A crow shines blue/black in the tree of his shade. Caw-caw, it speaks to him in an ancient voice. The highwayman laughs, taps out a finger-beat percussion on the side of his bucket seat full of dreams. He begins to hum and the bird cocks its head. Their eyes meet; they are birds of a feather.
The day passes and the bucket fills with bits and pieces. The highwayman sorts through lies, truth, half lies delivered in steps through holes in his mind. He turns down a ride in a Coupe De Ville, climbs into the back of an old beat-up pickup truck with a lovely crowd of Cherokee Children. They smile shyly with their dark eyes. He stares at his shoes and smiles back. From the bottom of their eyes, they are birds of a feather. The children dig into his bucket with hungry hands. He leaves ten dollars with their father, the driver of the truck, sets off down the shoulder of the road to refill it with a wink to the day and the voice of the crow.
Round and round, he swings the bucket. The sun highlights a circle silhouette, the arc of his throw, reach of his dreams. Both hands on its handle, he flips it over, sits down on top of it, opens the canteen, takes a conservative swallow. A crow shines blue/black in the tree of his shade. Caw-caw, it speaks to him in an ancient voice. The highwayman laughs, taps out a finger-beat percussion on the side of his bucket seat full of dreams. He begins to hum and the bird cocks its head. Their eyes meet; they are birds of a feather.
The day passes and the bucket fills with bits and pieces. The highwayman sorts through lies, truth, half lies delivered in steps through holes in his mind. He turns down a ride in a Coupe De Ville, climbs into the back of an old beat-up pickup truck with a lovely crowd of Cherokee Children. They smile shyly with their dark eyes. He stares at his shoes and smiles back. From the bottom of their eyes, they are birds of a feather. The children dig into his bucket with hungry hands. He leaves ten dollars with their father, the driver of the truck, sets off down the shoulder of the road to refill it with a wink to the day and the voice of the crow.
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