A Picture

Creating a picture in the motion of life

Drawing, tracing a figure with a fingernail

scraping against the pavement as the mid-day sun beats

down on the street, radiating from every surface and evaporating

every drop of moisture from the skin of his brow

having already produced beads of sweat resembling

raindrops collected on a leaf.

He feels the pressure on his finger, the subtle scraping

of his nail as it slowly fractures and turns to dust against

the coarse top of the black surface, dragged like a stick

in the sand along the beach, taunting the tide to wash it away.

He saw the movement of legs and skirts and pants and briefcases

and bicycles and cars and dogs as they moved past him.

They moved and he remained still.

As he slowly draws circles and squares and

triangles to create his figures his cuticles catch the surface

ripping the skin from his finger and creating

specks of blood that draw contrast as the red

blots of his life mix with the white trail

of flakes that represent his solid mass.

He felt the skin under his nail catch the pavement and stopped

and thrust his finger into his mouth and tasted the blood as it trickled

slowly on his tongue. He touched the raw skin with his tongue

and felt the smooth yet raw skin that tinged with pain

as his tongue brush against it passing along to find the pain.

He touched the injured finger to his lower teeth, slowly feeling

the wet, slippery ridges that existed on ivory that was so strong.

He looked to the sky and stared at the sun which had revoked any sense

of relief simply with its presence. It touched the beads of sweat on

his brow and stung his eyes as he stared directly at this white beacon.

He stood, feeling the pull of the muscles in his legs and the creaking

of his knees as he rose above the ground and looked down upon

the pavement that had become his canvas. He looked down

to the pavement and saw the collection of circles and squares

and triangles and he saw the world. He saw humanity he saw

his soul he saw the lives of those around him and of those who

had walked passed him as he created this picture, some not noticing

him others dismissing him as crazy or homeless or a runaway or

a junkie or a poor artist. He looked down and saw the world.