Day Twenty-Six: This Figure

He sits slouching-
no, no, not this one
he is, say
imperiously, laid-back
bowler hat hiding all
but that sharp chin
There’s a book in his hand
that’d warm me up to him
if he wasn’t so carelessly
riffling through it
with those slender, elegant fingers
that grey suit
he’s like a peacock
in a chicken coop
all the other passengers
loud and squawking
except he looks out the window
carefully watching the train
run past the ocean
and I watch him


The painting in my room was the thing out of place when I first arrived here. Now its an familiar figure, no less mysterious but familiar.



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