ten minute writings - A.J.

he's bending, bending and blowing, leaves elude the blower, like the people walking by him that elude his laughing eyes. His ear plugs stay in place under his black beanie hat and the breath from his mouth wisps out in little trails like the dust in the cold morning air. His hands are covered in those yellow felt work gloves with red edges. He wears army jeans from the surplus store. The cigarette papers, and gum wrappers run off the pavement into the gutters. Over time we've been saved by mounds of litter by his humble giving of time to clean up each day. Red Red Wine plays over the sound system, before that a jazz singer tells of Bobby Darin. In a Cafe a stew pot of words, people and music. Off to the bus, off to a routine, to shift into, after no structure for so long.