smoke lingers among the blood red cursive's crests while a bearded man drives by in a white minivan, tugging with both hands on his partially rolled down window, as if trying to escape from his own trip. across the street a young guy presumably waits for his bus, standing beside a wooden bench set atop a couch shaped block of concrete, wearing a low slung backpack over a dark blue down vest, snow white spaghetti dangling from his bobbing head as he rants to himself, or so i think, as the people in my neighborhood sometimes do that, which always makes me feel like i've somehow stumbled into a closet, bursting with argument, but then i noticed he was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer getting ready to enter a ring, eyes open but empty, as if he was crouching down inside of himself, away from those windows, while his wrists swung his hands from side to side as if there was a wind in there blowing those pale shutters, open & closed & open again, one of them clasping a cigarette, and then he'd pause for a drag while his head counted the beat, release what he took in & begin again, turning to the side & away from the street, not performing for, but in, a spare shelter framed by burgundy wood, cat tails undulating beside the stoic pine, there are some things we need to hear & some things we need to say before we enter the space where we compete, in between home & work or school, it's all the same:
you must inhale the song before you enter the ring.
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