February 2001, Narrative Verse
Having just returned from the grocery store, I am with my friends, entering the house from the north side. He begins passing as we unlatch the door, taking note of a florescent orange scrap which lies on the ground. Everybody knows him, he passes the house many times a day. He’s mostly referred to as the guy with the Barbie tucked into his football helmet or the guy that walks like this.
Today he is wearing the usual bright colors, layers of vividly striped shirts, on and wrapped around his waist where he fastens his pink bunny along with other items, trinkets of his personality. The left pant-leg of his faded blue jeans is securely pegged at the knee. Loose tennis shoes chase his feet and his selected headgear is a boxy, brandless, florescent-green cap over a paisley forest-green bandana disguised in more attached finds and an array of ballpoint pens wedged into the band of his swimming goggles. All this set off with a silver-laced smile.
Our eyes meet, though, as this makes our intentions vulnerable we quickly look back to our respective paths. I wonder his name… My friends are already heading downstairs toward the kitchen. I hold back, curious, peering out the small window on the door as it closes. His walk, confident, brisk with a hint of athleticism, exhibits a pause. He turns back toward the florescent orange scrap lying exposed, approaches and stands in observation for a moment. Decided, he reaches down, gathers and houses the treasure alongside his waist, as if he has found a piece of himself.