...Inside Out...
I've seen him before.
Registered him.
Noticed
his
presence.
Has he failed to
blend in with the masses,
or rather succeeded in
standing apart?
A white-haired old man
with gristled beard,
he stands at the curb
of a cobble-stoned intersection
and there quavers back and forth.
His hesitancy conveys itself
via tiny little swiveling sidesteps.
This way. No,
that way.
Wait…
let's rethink this.
He has
a dapper appearance.
A self-groomed man,
he wears a crisp white shirt
which he's buttoned to the collar,
this and a pair of
patent leather loafers
on bare sock-less feet.
His only fashion faux pas
is the fact that
he's wearing his jeans
inside out.
The cuffs of his jeans
have been turned up,
exposing the darker
blue of the denim
against the light tone
of the cloth's inner surface.
He made a
conscious effort
to do this.
About his hips
it becomes apparent
that all his pocket openings
are turned in.
Indeed, all of his possessions
are inaccessible.
But then again, perhaps
this
is the point.
Perhaps it's not so much
that his possessions be
inaccessible to him,
but that they be
inaccessible to us.
He is not
an inside-out man.
No.
No.
He is forever
outside in.
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