The Newspaper Seller
‘Express and Star!’ He calls unto the shoppers passing by, peering from his wooden hut that dwells beside the bank.
The headlines trapped behind the gauze lie rippled by the damp, the ink does run like fading tears the town does gently weep.
So many years he’s been there, a familiar face to all, yet carries on within the fading twilight of his life.
His face is almost hidden by a woollen hat and scarf, as he wipes away the raindrops from the spectacles he wears.
He looks unto the slated skies, then mutters to himself, and watches people heading home, and yet he has to stay.
Behind the pile of papers stacked upon the counter there, beneath a smooth and heavy stone he uses as a weight.
As still the bitter wind does blow that offers no remorse, he calls again with all his strength into the evening air.
‘Express and Star!’ Yet no one stops to buy one from his stall, a street of blank expressions ’neath the vast umbrella crowd.
Confined within that wooden hut from which there’s no escape, he stamps his feet to keep them warm, then rubs his weary hands.
The pigeons keep him company, or else he’d be alone, to stare into the darkness till the shutter does come down.