20 November 2007. Hands moving over keyboards, man of middle years working alongside--plaid shirt, watchcap, pointed gray goatee. Weathered face, but not quite Gary Snyder. Rubber flip-flops--Solano de jure--humming occasionally under his breath.
In the front, with crumpled newspaper in hand--Mr. Copes. "How are you my friend?" He smiles in his predictable but always genuine way. Teeth occasional. But his walk is off--he holds the doorframes as he makes his way along the street, gathering materials, returning inside to do the windows, standing on a rickety aluminum ladder from the back room--the corporate ladder, so inscribed--but for Mr. Copes, simply an approach to heaven...
Or the day's wage...
No comments:
Post a Comment