A well-dressed young woman
holding a fuji instax camera
in the dead center of december
walks swiftly down government street
gazing towards the architecture in the distance.
A well-dressed middle man
standing in front of a used car sales lot
on government street holding a granny smith apple
tells the young passing lady she looks nice
in Spanish.
She stops,
He tosses her the apple.
She hands it back, says she would rather a photograph of it.
He tells her its his birthday, pulling out his id.
She looks- Jack Windell born 12/13/1960.
You smell as though you've had a few birthday drinks.
Ofcourse, he replies, sneaking her a peak at
the mickey of lemon-heart rum in his long,
wool dress-coats breast pocket,
it's my fiftieth birthday!
Jacks teeth are tobacco colored.
The lines of character on his forehead
raise and contract
as if khapalbhati breathing.
He is from Drumheller where:
"The men are men and
the women are too,
kenya' dig?"
Eventually, whilst explaining the dynamics of 19th
century architecture to the young woman,
Jack caught up with some old friends of his
who appeared to have some serious business to conduct with him
Did they ever.
-----
strangers with apples are strange apples.
