I Never Left Him

On faint drizzly afternoons, my father would have brought me along to amusingly sneer at the migrates arriving at our community. They would have pranced out of the gravel archway that ends the abyss, bestowing a mercy on themselves, others cementing hospitalities to the arrivals, forming the warmth of clusters to be joined. Then, out of the crowded procession approached this particular creature dressed in his rugged cold-burnt skin, and tattered in his crude drabs which apprehended the wind around him. with a notable grimace smile, that if I was not aware of the humidity, I would assumed the sky Fell at the presence of, he Gently nested himself on the concrete unhindered from us. with his strewed inert eyes, that could not help, but to protrude on ours, remaining listless at his post, ever so mocking the figments around him, while arousing little action. Eventually this scene left my innate gaze, as all menial events. Til It became noticeably conceived that he was the dilemmic talk of our loving neighbors, each night chatter would take interest as he serenades the locals with his drunken singing, every morning the babbles would give its account of how clanking footsteps on our houses allowed us to be awoken up by his rhythmic dance. Yet, this visitor never left his little patch of grey, and never abandoned his vocation of stringently waving at the passersby. Days began where often enough I was to be fascinated with what was known as the public crackpot. One moment less of a reoccurring afternoon, my prying had me reluctantly unlatched myself from the caring grasp of father, to the subject of gossip. disconcerted, I spoke in a soft tone “Who are you.” As his rigid face broke in an even more callous smirk, obliging a form of submission, he maneuvered his gaudy arms around my mouth to coerce a playful grin, he said in a pervasively fervent voice

I am just a foreign man
From a foreign land
A plain full of strangers it be
Yet, none more the deranger then me

After an unascertainable delay my father seized my shirt collar, yanking back reality. With that he had never installed himself on the concrete lane any further. Yet, I have seen him strolling by the gravel path, again, then again, a crowd of him showed up again, moments after the abyss spewed him out, in a less delayed manner, again, and again. There he began to break off of the endless chasm, another being of its own reiterating his identical movements. On occasions, Congested patches of him would mosey out, all with his frostbitten skin, all flaunting his contorted smile, gently nesting themselves on the reserved avenues best suited just to him.