The Living and the Dead

Freed by the miraculous knee brace, I set out after my flu shot to see the new art in the neighborhood, a memorial to a man named Christian Lucas who died last year, 31 years young. Someone loved him. His work is done. 

As I clicked the shutter, a recycler hove into view, green garbage sacks of cans tossed over his shoulders like scarves. I saw the care he took in dressing, red sneakers matching his hoodie, a faded yarn necklace at his chest. He was talking to entities I couldn’t see, rifling trash cans for small booty. 

Does someone love this natty dresser who must have slept in a tent or a doorway last night? This morning he’s hard at work, hoping to find enough aluminum to buy a meal or something to ease his pain, talking to his entities all the way. His work isn’t done yet.