Another Uber
A short stubby little man that smells like gasoline
Keeps his car clean
I watch another man in his late sixties saunter down the street carrying an old overworked plastic bag over his shoulder
He had nice clean Adidas shoes on which clashed with the rest of his grimy facade
The truck next to us at the red light has "Avery Dennison" printed on its broad side
I immediately think of hippos boiling
Literary prowess hidden away underneath the floorboards
And what am I? Just hoping to recreate the same sort of wonder I feel when reading that soft deliberate prose
Romanticizing those days long gone
Those days of hobos, dharma bums and tramps
Sleeping in the dust whipping back and forth from East to west
Holy men living only on wine and bread
The closest I got was way out there in the north jersey woods
Sitting alone in a crumbling warehouse listening to the few birds still flying in the cold late autumn air
The rusted water tower staring ominously down at me, a rope ladder tied to one of its legs marked with the initials of every brave soul that dared to climb it and see a view rivaled only by the hawks
An exhilarating rush to be alone in the wild, constantly looking over your shoulder and creating a story out of the falling leaves and broken branches by your feet
And the cold, the bitter, biting cold air that claws at your skin but also invites you out from the warmth of your seedy smoked-filled room
How I miss that freezing winter air, February here is a boiling sizzling scape
And the water towers are so much shorter