my spot before sunrise. I’m there before the suits pass by.They don’t
know my name. They look at me kneeling outside a bank in a town
that’s in-between bigger towns. I may as well be a pigeon. As my old
girl said, they’ll miss me when I’m gone. They’ll mark my spot with
posies and tape up photos of how I was. They might not be sure if
I’m begging or not. I scrape away at my fiddle. They might not be sure
if I’m practising or busking. Sometimes I frogmarch myself down
the road. That’s me: muttering, like a crow. Other times, I laugh and
smile my yellowed teeth. I’m tall. And my beanie makes me taller.
But you wouldn’t know that from the way I kneel. I’m folding in on
myself. I’m hiding from the world in the best place to hide: outside.