Mickey Stingray Dec 19 2014 Rumble Cart as the old rickety shopping cart rumbles down the cracked. and scared sidewalk, you can hear its feint echo off in the distance. as the sound bounces off the graffiti painted walls in the dirty alleys and gutters of the littered landscape ahead, its report is muffled only by the shuffle of two feet that drive it past the closed and boarded up storefronts . the steel roll up gates and the flickering neon lights. Still it rumbles on. The solitaire figure draped in dawns early light wears a tattered coat stained with years of wear. the finger less gloves reveal the many cuts scares and calluses and dirty fingernails wrapped tightly around the handle of his steel steed. his jeans are matted with dirt and wrinkled. a pair of boots upon his feet show holes and busted laces tied together in knots. rolling past the alleyways the rats and mice dart in and out of the cans and bags spilled upon the ground. as the shadows seem to retreat before the sunrise, steam vents up and rises into the air from all the storm drains and sewer lids along the way. one by one the streetlight sentrys distinguish there glimmer yielding to the daylight. and still the cart rolls on! then ...a pause......reaching into his pocket. he revels a single cigarette. holding it in his hand he glides two fingers across it straightening it out. as he reaches into his other pocket he pulls out a book of matches, with only one left. he pulls and strikes, as the match flares up he bobs his head cigarette in mouth and inhales quickly, like a pro, he takes in a lung full. deep and long he holds his breath...then he waits to exhale. expelling the first drag . the cart rolls on. inside the cart are all of his earthly possessions. everything he owns, his treasures, all that is near and dear. pushing on he only looks into the cart, as if taking inventory, ignoring all that surrounds him. never looking side to side. its almost like he is immune to all the filth and decay he is immersed in. still the cart rolls on. not a single other person is around, only this one lost soul who pushes a cart filled with treasure on a seemingly endless trek through this barren and un forgiven concrete jungle called hells kitchen... then there is a reflection of neon upon his eyes, as a feint smile creeps along his scragley beard, his wrinkled face. and his crooked brow, a row of brown teeth stretch a smile across he split and cracked lips. the rumbling cart comes to a hault in front of the state street mission. home at last, back in the cradle of his faith. the only place, were his presence is accepted, welcomed, and revered. back in the house of god, were a hot meal, a warm embrace, and a soft bed can be found behind a door that is open to anyone who walks. in. they only need to reach out and turn the knob.
Posted on: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 20:22:28 +0000
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