Mad Angel’s Gait

by Peter Franklin

The right-front wheel on my cart
Has that inevitable wobble…
Shimmy…spastic jerk that hampers my forward progress.
At times I pay no attention to it…sometimes
Give it a good kick, makes no difference.
Wobble. Shimmy. Mutter.
Mad Angel’s gait…
It is all here…everything…all of it.
Clothing.
Trinkets.
Valuables faded from the sun,
Faded from memory.
Currency in cans and bottles, stuffed safely away…
Bits of this,
Pieces of that…
The flotsam and jetsam of a
Nomadic life.
Well-guarded.
Hell, it doesn’t get any simpler than this.
It is all here…
Ebb and flow of all that I can carry.
My castle…
My reservoir…
My storage unit…
No options for expansion.
I have nothing that I don’t need,
Though there is a lot that I indeed want.
I sleep. I wake. I wander. Sadly,
No dreams anymore.
Fallen from grace.
You may or may not notice me when you pass by.
I don’t know…as I am paying far less attention to you
Than you are to me.
In self-conversation, I find myself
Lurching down the avenue, in sync with the
Cart wheel.
We are both a little out of control.