Written by Arlee Francis
Three up and two across from me, you lean out the window. Teeth flashing golden in the light from passing cars. It trails over your form and I can almost make out the title of the battered paperback dangling from your left hand.
Shakespeare, I think.
And this world is your stage, Stranger. You direct from the cracked facade of your seventh floor room. Commanding the white and red lines of traffic streaming endlessly in both directions towards the distance.
They don't see you, Stranger, but I do.
(and how you command my attention)