On the main road, which is partly paved, a young girl wobbles by on a bicycle that is far too large for her, standing on the peddles, thin brown legs pumping in slow motion. Her white smile pierces the sunlit morning between us. A black dog stands in the middle, not sure who to avoid--the girl on the bike or the man on the motorbike. A street seller chugs along in the opposite direction, beating a rubber washing tub, lugging ten more on his back. Thump, thump, thump … beat the drum slowly. Far away in a matter of minutes, I stop at the Minit Mart for cigarettes and check my phone and note that she has still not sent a message. Four lanes of traffic roar with the demands of morning. The world forges ahead, somewhat without me, unable to pause, and I join it, because there is no other option, flashing along the left sides of the cars and trucks, trying to keep up with a life that has already gotten away. Then beat the drum slowly, play the Fife lowly, Play the dead march as you carry me along.
No comments:
Post a Comment