American Yarnprose>Shadowboxing

Shadowboxing

It was still winter. The young boy rode the train past the evening rush. Close to midnight now. All the passion he gave out like kisses to his mother during the day was dried up completely, at least for the moment.

He was shadowboxing his own thought process now, drinking in the peculiarity around him. Whores on the avenue, hopping in and out of cars. Couples necking and petting against staircases and in alleyways. Old beleaguered Mexicans speaking to each other in Spanish their entire day’s trials and tribulations. The conversations flowed. Paper to ink. Moth to flame. Snow to ice. Thunder to rain. Yippies to yuppies. Hobos to bohemians. The world turned and he turned with it, I suppose.

But then, his focus had changed going home was a hard thing to do. Nothing to do at home.

Dry leaves on the ground. Nobody to greet him at the door. No dog. No cat. No fish. No turtle. No bird. No spider. No snake. No mother, no father.

Father.

Father.

Working late at the office, so he suspected.

Taking his face off and powdering the nose of the secretary.

Where was his mother? Back to the bottle again or at least married to it, unlike being married to father.

Different kind of marriage altogether.

The train doors opened. Loads of people get off; loads of people get on.

Multi-color Pepsi generation gap gripping the moment.

Well-endowed societal sophistication.

The young boy is nodding, just nodding off.

Train is way too crowded now. Talking replaces bumping and clumping of train along tracks.

Freighting used to be for loners, but now, well now it’s for slummers and yuppies, bonified in their personal quests to become techo-trendos.

The young boy doesn't really care, he just wants to go home.