Mistake
Sheltered
in a grey sooted rag and hair a shade lighter from dust, I smoked away a pipe
and ran out of tobacco. Desperate. I looked around for anybody.
There,
I spotted a man in a black trench coat. I knew he wouldn't refuse.
"A
fella can do with a little hard cash, huh? Care to lend some for tobacco?"
I approached.
"You're
smoking a pipe and asking for money?" He asked disdainfully.
"What
made you come down to this I wonder. Or, should I suppose at some point you
were richer than you look." He edged away.
Taken
aback.
"Well,
I made this mistake, and that's what happened!" I defended myself,
distressed.
"A
mistake does not make a man poor. You make a mistake to come around and out of
it. Probably some bigger wrongs did you in?" He said.
"Think
to yourself." Putting a cigarette in his mouth, he dropped some cash, and
walked away.
Cash...
That is no cash! Only a penny or two.
"Miser!"
I spat.
Angry.
I smoked the pipe again.
And
then everyday. Staring into oblivion. Thinking. Whatever smoke remains,
intensifies, obscures my vision, and burn my eyes. I drop a tear. The smoke
absorbs it too.