The middle-aged man scissor strides wide down the empty sidewalk across the freeway overpass around lunchtime. The intersection is always busy.
Blue painters tape he has wrapped around the left boot, black steel-tipped toed hooves which smack carelessly atop the gold and silver glittering cement in a usual left, right way.
He twists his swaying hands in fists, turning them clenched in and out of sync with his inefficient gait.
He sneers around and his hair is trim. He wears a buttoned-up baby blue collared shirt with light black bulging cargo pants, masking knobby legs to show he was prepared for anything.
He wasn't, clearly.
It was hard to tell where he was going faster than all the fancy new cars jammed atop the asphalt
all around him.
Two million dollars blowing smoke and going nowhere faster than he fidgets.
It is easy to think of all the miles he must have traveled and all the wealth he has casually passed by and free ways he must have walked over, all the while, the important ones are collectively waiting in line and he is wearing out his durable souls going somewhere, believing the blue tape will work better than becoming a new man,
just before I lost sight of him
for good.
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