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Scraping off the soil on his hand with a fork
Naturally shaking eyes dart up, amazingly still blue
But icy cold, like the clear water he never gets to drink
He pulls right to run left, staggering never drunk, if he can’t afford water what makes anyone assume he can afford booz?
leaving the silver sponge of the deformed fork on the ground with a clang
‘Oh, it was just a Hobo.’ Someone laughs
all he hears is ‘ Ho, wah tusjt Hobo.’
His mouth half open at all times
He thinks he can hear through his mouth
He strains his neck to see, to see if the mean man is gone
He doesn’t know what judging is
But he can feel it all throughout his new obtained sense that some people call ‘crazy’.
He sometimes leaks through the middle of his face
He smiles when this happens, thinking it's okay
He sometimes feels as if the smiling isn’t right, the smiling doesn’t match the leakedge because the water sometimes goes into his mouth and he doesn’t like the salt taste.
He traces his wrinkles carved like air dry clay
He strains again.
He’s starting to recall
something besides hunger.
Sculpture, he wanted to make sculpture.
He takes out the playdough a little kid dropped out of his stroller a while back
He carries it around like rabbit feet
He smiles and brings it up to his cheek.
His eyes blink slowely with a source of overflowing gratitude when suddenly
a man appears in his face
The mean man.
He jerks and scrambles against the wall, clutching his play dough.
The man lights a match, looking at his friends with a crooked smile.
Throws it and leaves him
Kicking at him
The frightened man’s icy eyes amazingly didn’t reflect the fire
Pure, dirty pure but remembered one word