Poetry For Our Time

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis

Subway Series: The Cowboy Man

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Six layers of every color don his skin, a purple scarf, rainbowed beads, fringe, scraggly, unwashed hair that hangs like dreads without form, like a doll who had been neglected by her owner, her crown sticking out like a corpse amongst the pile of other toys: trains, toy phones, and dress up clothes. He moves throughout the car, sitting, standing, unsure of where to get off, or when, if ever. He looks, he stares; people look, people stare. And his hat, hiding something perhaps? Maybe there are bills atop his head, kept secret by the hat and string, tied tightly at his chin, perhaps uncomfortably so, but secure. It holds his life, possibly, or his shame: When you wear hats, part of you feels hidden from the world, your eyes are less exposed, you face the world in disguise, under a shield, under protection. Perhaps this oddity was his shield, an ironic statement of loneliness; he became that which he did not want to be in order to be alone. There is a unique smell permeating the area: the man’s unkempt hair, his soiled clothes that yearn to be laundered, all the colors deprived of the chance to bleed into each other, the layers of pants collecting dirt and dust that embeds into the fabric. Finally he stands, taking with him his mystery and his unique smell that follows him like an aura, his own halo of stench, and exits, turns the opposite way of myself, and leaves my world forever.

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Written by TheUndomestic

February 7, 2009 at 11:45 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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