Moderate this: Track 19

Track 19


Truman struggled, stooped, out the doctor’s door into sunlight solely meant for those nurturing growth. Heat, a burnt-out nurse‘s feverish palm, irritated his wan neck. He limped til shade, some, just some semblance of oasis, allowed his frame to creak and fold onto the Council’s metal bench.
He lit his last fag, flouting all Reason of the terminally healthy, and sucked smoke deep into scarred lungs. The tests were negative. Not a thing wrong. Nothing.
Silently keening - gut to throat, no further - Truman tried to seek beyond himself. Lives, purposeful lives, so many, streamed along the pavement towards horizons which demanded no change of direction. Care no further than the nearest café, the next meeting.
Across the high street sat a tramp. Stock-still. Mere subjective motion, flickering from the brief gaps between high-end motors. An incessant, ephemeral zebra crossing no pedestrian would brave without codified traffic lights.. Truman would never see the tramp’s eyes, but with this meagre purchase he softened back into the bench. He allowed his song to escape, seep, smoke-stained, from his parched lips. The aleatory music of the streets harmonised, a low hum, some, just some human pleading. Stay, a moment, one, just one moment. Please.
A starched collar flicked an indeterminate coin into the tramp’s upturned cap. Stirring from his stupor, he clasped the coin and stumbled around the corner. Too soon. Truman stifled his song. Stuffed his ears. Took a last drag to singe skin to skins to skin. Stepped out into the sun and weaved his way along somewhere out beyond but ever-bounded.