The wind is a missle, guided it points its harsh tip at my tent, this cardboard palace, whos flimsy walls shiver and quiver in its birth; each fresh onslot hitting, bitting, breaking, smashing, shaking, quacking as they sound with voilent shifts that boom and pound.
“I the sudden victim!!” I scream to the faceless breath of God,
“I the sole upon the floor that shoes will never trod.”
Then the wind, that irritable beast, that fist from far above, slips quietly passed without a word to me that is has calmed.
“Be there Font-Lover,” says a voice from outside the sideways lid of my home. Male, from the smell, plus I can hear the cart he’s pushing. Women here tend toward carrages.
“Perhaps, with a stick for you,”
The voice stops, just beyond my door. Not much would cause it to break, not much at all, though I fear less his assult then having to find yet another encloser.
“No stick, none needed, I come for the sweet you found.”
‘Your wasted’ I remember thinking. He could not know of the sweet. I pocket too quickly, and he was not there, whom ever he is.
“Not for you to know.” I warned him, staying away from an opening fold. His fingers may have intruded slightly, but I could sense a pause now in him, and what crept to me retreated back into the night.
I waited for sometime before stepping back out of the soaking shack I called my home. Orange lamps far above my head bathed the street in glistening marmelade. It looked delicious, I was so very hungry. Thinking that the day has never a wasted minute I grabbed my basket and started out to find some food.
Matthew Newton
DOC #81868
