Cold Eggs

The man is in a state of animation.  His body in motion. He is not just another body on the street. Not just walking by with his head held down. His head is up; his eyes out; mouth open. The traffic between us mutes his words, but I can see their effect on his body. Every syllable made thrusts him forward to the brink of insanity and death as the bus roars by. My food is getting cold yet I feel enamored to understand him. What is he trying to say? And to whom? He wears a bright blue cap on his head, the color as much an obstruction as his voice, silenced by death ears and loud mufflers. He needs a soapbox. His frame is short and slender but that is not why he needs a soapbox. Any box will do in fact, but he needs to stand on something. He needs a vessel that shows he is asking to be heard. As it is, he is an annoyance, embarrassment, something to comment on before we put our eyes back on to the floor. And as my lift my eyes from these written words I realize they are my own form of distraction. Now the blue cap is gone, leaving me saddened. Though I can’t be sure if it because he is gone or because my eggs and coffee have gone cold.