The Street Peddler

[My first response to the Daily Prompt: Hope]

A street vendor swept down from the yellowish mid-day sky, alighted on a wobbly, graffiti-covered park bench, which caused him to buck and sway for delicate moments as if on a precarious tightrope. When he finally acquired his balance, he unfurled like a bat, displaying the dollar wares tucked tightly within the inner folds and secretive pockets of his checkered and multi-layered cape. His smile was uncomfortable, his eyes shifty, and he reeked like swine with a spritz of patchouli. He adjusted his blood-red and soiled cap, which read, “MAGA Man,” in gaudy golden script, and hollered in a raspy, yet hypnotic, voice,

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Treasures of the Wooden Chest

Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . .

He repeatedly tapped and scraped the wooden cell door, to the point of digging a trench with his slender finger, seeking the wandering attention of his keeper.

Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . .

The rhythmic sound was interrupted only by the deathly quiet, when he strained for the slightest sound of curiosity.

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