High Light Of The Day
Being human Hugh Minn lived on Earth,
for what that was worth,
lone human being, obscure biped few knew.
Department store visit, rare not often,
stood on a step on the escalator down
from fourth floor Menswear,
held in his right hand shiny plastic bag,
new purchased shoes in a box
made of cardboard contained.
Old shoes had holes in,
and who goes to the cobbler
to have footwear mended nowadays, anyway,
he wondered, best buy new ones,
which he had done.
It is your fault for inspecting me,
he would say to those who watched,
even studied him in secret,
to complain of his greyness, dull ways,
not every person’s worth a novel,
not every day’s a drama,
not all broken line prose a poem.
But observe, on his way to the train station,
he considers a coffee in a café,
decides they all look too full,
the customers seem to have claimed every table,
unlikely to leave them, so his mouth remains dry.
Waits for the train, takes him most of the way home,
walks to his door, opens fridge,
drinks milk to quench thirst.
Bought new shoes, high light of the day over.