Pity Poor Man

Man stood on the corner. By himself. Cars were loud, zipping everywhichaway underneath the overpass. Hot, even in the shade. What time it is?

Man didn’t know no more.

Man felt a finger jabbing him in the back. Man turned around and there stood a short red head woman who suggested something along the lines of there was a problem here and apparently he was to blame.

Man stumbled backwards. Little red headed finger was jackhammering his chest, accompanied by a verbal fusillade of epic preponderance. Taking exception, it would seem.

Man did not know. She, or nairn. Who?

Man stumbled backward from the curb.

What?

Man never hit the ground.

No.

Man flew. For the first time in his life. Yes.

Man didn’t wave bye to no one.

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