He has spent so, so long becoming. He was ready, or was at least ready to say that he was ready. He set up shop on the corner and began to declaim his verse. It takes the form of oratory at times and at other times music. Some people passing think him lousy. One little boy bursts into tears although his much older sister looks back with sly appraisal. The mother keeps her eyes ahead. She does not want to look back at this man made mostly of words. He declaims more verse, drawing on his own inspiration, on what was remembered and what else was remembered wrong, on the five thousand books on his back. What he’s saying sounds good enough to him to speak up, louder. The older sister is standing on the corner across the street, still watching. The brother and mother have vanished inside the belly of a store. The sister, jet hair, maroon coat, stares levelly, mouthing “ragged odist.” How does she know? How old is she? He can’t look at her though she is all he wants to look at. He feels upbeat. He will make it after all. Or will he? Can the intensity of his optimism vault him from obscurity to the renown he has always deserved? He pogos up on hope, determined not to slip and shatter on the sidewalk below. He attains an altitude. Wafting from a window he can smell a garlicky brodetto. Beneath him people go back and forth, holding bags weighted down with items they have just purchased. Their receipts float near the tops, unlit wicks.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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