The bus north was a rumbling gray coffin, evidence of my failure, like a tamed and crippled raptor. We passed a hitchhiker and I ducked, unwilling to see the disdain on his face. Returning to Boston was the first time Id ever gone back anywhere. For a decade my motto has been Always Forward, but that has taken me to a swamp and reduced me to a bus. Forward had become backwards I had six dollars when Shadrack met me in Boston. He kept remembering money hed borrowed in the past, enough to keep me in cigarettes and food. He also deigned to share with me the towel Id given him. I found work at a onehour photo store, producing imagery before the sentiment had time to fade. Since I was the only male and the only white, customers assumed I was the manager. I quit, tired of people believing lies about me. I wasnt an actor, painter, playwright, or poet. I was just one more nondescript person on the planet. Ponce de Leon died from a Seminoles arrow at age sixty, still trying to live the life of a youth. I would not make his mistake. I moved into an upscale rooming house and wrote some poems
boston, deigned, onehour, shadrack, rooming