lone man, in a harborside gazebo, late at night

where the day has been most surreal:
dispossessed of the roof over his head
by the Authorities, brought by
the mother of the only child
through a large prevarication,
to send him packing
in ten minutes;
and vocabulary fails
to capture the monstrosity of such;
best left for another day,
with dictionary at hand;
the sights of the day, ludicrous,
all of us and each one of us:
grown men trying to fly kites,
and others trying to know the likes
of certain doom, without too much gloom;
people being people
and blind to being observed,
recorded, set down, noted,
each and every one
their own fool,
like me, the lone man,
in a harborside gazebo,
with pen in hand,
late at night.



July 20, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.