He's standing under a lamp post, in my mind's eye. Exhausted, he leans against it, sighs a deep sigh, and stares across the water. It's spring and the colors of the trees and bushes around him are beautiful, but the falling rain causes the beauty to become exquisite.
His tattered hat and ripped coat tell the history of his life these last few years. If you take but a quick look, you would think him to be Red Skeleton on the black and white screen of your old tv. But in your heart you can promise that he doesn't have the same stories to tell that Mr. Skeleton does.
I would love to hear those stories of his. The man at the lamp post, that is. What brings a man to look so sad? What causes him to wear clothes dirtier than dirt? What made him so exhausted? Did he lose a loved one? Did he do some evil that caused his fare?
As a tear runs down his cheek, he stands with a grunt of pain, squares his shoulders, and presses on. He doesn't know what to do, but he's heard them say that the city holds miracles for everyone. Ahh, that beautiful city. He's not much of a dreamer, but he's willing to wager that anything can happen if he tries hard enough.
And just like that, I realize the picture I was staring at is nothing but a picture of trash cans and tourist signs.
