THE PAVEMENT GOD

 

The pavement was warm and his feet were naked. He walked without standing, saw without blinking, talked without words. His long fingers twitched - held tightly to his stringy thighs. No one saw him, no one moved - he was light as the wind, heavy as the earth itself. His head nodded slightly to a rhythm he knew well, it gently drummed its tones behind his fractured eye - like always. He was stratified in pleasure, though transient in being. He was temporary god of the warm pavement, naked feet absorbing the chipped concrete. His jeans rattled around his slender ankles, his faded old-band t-shirt shifted around his skinny waist, just as the world in its turn shifted around him, exacting its payment for his presence. He'd whistle if he knew how, sing if he had the words, but all that was moot, all might just as well have been a lifetime away - or more. He was the pavement god for the moment - gentle, soft soles of his feet making their mark, forcing a structure of existence where there shouldn't have been one. He didn't care, it wasn't important. He would walk the curve of the earth if he needed to - one small pale foot in front of the other. The pavement sizzled, his feet burned - he was god for the moment, ecstasy in transit.