Those Days

grumble grumble.

Hard to be kind, he thinks.

He thinks this often.

As often as there are ticks on an analogue wall clock.

Takes strength to be kind he mutters.

Aint that the fucking truth.

How many times does one need to be kicked in the teeth before one knows its always going to hurt?

The man walks down the street.

He is bow legged.

He looks like a man that worked his entire life.

Worked for real.

He's a bald, white shirted, stubble wearing, wire rim glasses man. 

He's bowl chested.

A sour looking mother fucker.

Kids play pick up ball across the street from the man.

Oops, one of them let's the ball out of play.

The ball bounces towards the man

The man gives it a swift kick.

And the ball sails off into the distance

Eventually it lands and skitters.

It bounces up once

Then twice

and then over 

a fence that separates the neighborhood from a deep thorn strewn ravine.

“Hey mister” says one of the kids

“you kicked our ball into the ravine”.

The man says “You’re god damn right I did”.

“Hey mister” says another one of those god damn kids 

“that makes you an asshole.”

The mans says “You’re god damn right I am”.

The kids want to challenge this man.

Fuck, he’s an old man.

But, yeah, he does give off a vibe that suggests

“Naw, it ain’t worth it.”

Yeah, they’d probably take him.

Given the numbers.

But sometimes

even when the numbers favor you,

the payoff ain’t worth the trip to betting window.

The man continues ambling down the road.

And those kids don’t do a god damn thing.  

All the man wants is some god damn coffee.