He was a life less used. A flower
rejecting water. He considers himself
a square, surrounded by a circle;
room to stretch but never enough to
change position.
The drumming of his words sway like
wheat heads driven by random winds as
his words release, explaining the
unnecessary.
He drums his fingers on a wall. The beat
merging with a tune dribbling from
his lips.
He appears to be interested. Listening
to those passing. Forming opinions.
Sharing his thoughts with the uncaring.
Roger Singer 