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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1001650
Rated: E · Prose · Experience · #1001650
suitcase, easel, paintbox...
It's always early morning without joe in this hobo's sleeping-bag-dream of tall city buildings shaped like headstones, fanged griffins carved of grey granite, watching me, hollow-eyed cupids staring, piercing me...

Suitcase, easel, paintbox, sit on the sidewalk beside me, and I search the street signs, looking for maple, always for maple, thinking it will soothe me like a log cabin, or like Mrs. Butterworth's, coating my nerves as a proper breakfast should on the first day at the university.

I'm not a transient, but for this brief moment I could be homeless if I can't find the busy street, the cavernous building, the next hallway to the next door in this new darkening world. The torn off stub of a bus-ticket in my breast pocket says where I've come from, does nothing to announce my arrival here, nothing to assuage the fear of the unknown playing against my pancake breakfast, or to quell the pounding pulse that blinks my vision...

I finally smile though, as the picture changes... lying on my back on a bright country day at the cemetery back home, imagining the headstones are tall city buildings, displaying the chiseled names of important people on their surfaces, and young scholars walking between them, marveling at their architecture and trying to learn great things from the greatest people ever to have graced the Earth.

And I feel better. This is my cup of joe, for a nervous, young student of art history, luggage in tow, turning the corner onto Maple.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1001650