Crutches

Day 7

Crutches cannot sneak up on a soul.  The middle of the night sheds its shadows at the clack-clack-clack of his approach.  He has a story, but I've never heard it.  Everyone has a story.  Even Crutches.

The irony, though, is that Crutches only has one crutch.  That is a tragedy, too.  He has a beard, and hair, and the wild look of a man who will never not be a late-night wander with a name like Crutches.  He asks for two specific amounts.  He doesn't ask for his fifty cents, or his dollar, in any way other than timidly.  Either he is too new for bitterness, or too old.  He'll cross a street in the middle of traffic, his clack-clack-clack stopping the metal flow.  Always returning somewhere, darkest hours.  Clack-clack-clack and I whisper, "There goes Crutches."