It’s dark.
The neon reflects in the rain-slicked streets. Around me, a million cars seek a path known only to them.
Inside my car it’s quiet.
The steady hum of the tires on the pavement and the slow, fluid sounds of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five fill the void.
Somehow, for me, that piece of music sounds like rain. The saxaphone splashes notes against the windshield like so many raindrops.
The sun has long since faded for the day.
For the week, maybe.
Above me, the sky hangs low, moist and soft and gray.
Colors are more vivid — the red dirt, so prevelent here in Oklahoma, has been washed way.
Brubeck continues.
In my mind I see a single man, wrapped in a dark overcoat, moving quietly through the rain-soaked street.
I change lanes and merge smoothly toward the downtown exit. Near Broadway and 23th Street the aroma of newly baked bread hangs heavy in the moist air.
It swirls and blends with the smell of my large coffee, and takes my mind places on this late, wet night that I haven’t visited in years.
The wet and the dark, conspire to make me feel cold. I pull my coat tighter around me and move quickly back to my car.
In front of me, a homeless man holds a damp cardboard sign. I empty the change from both pockets in his red, plastic cup.
He gives me a toothless smile and offers me a blessing from the Almighty.
Briefly, I remember my grandmother. She always admonished me to share with the poor and the homeless.
“Just in case the good Lord visits the Earth disguised as a begger,” she said.
I know, tonight, she would be proud.
I slide back behind the wheel and, quickly, the engine comes to life.
Brubeck resumes his music.
And I continue my way home.
The neon reflects in the rain-slicked streets. Around me, a million cars seek a path known only to them.
Inside my car it’s quiet.
The steady hum of the tires on the pavement and the slow, fluid sounds of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five fill the void.
Somehow, for me, that piece of music sounds like rain. The saxaphone splashes notes against the windshield like so many raindrops.
The sun has long since faded for the day.
For the week, maybe.
Above me, the sky hangs low, moist and soft and gray.
Colors are more vivid — the red dirt, so prevelent here in Oklahoma, has been washed way.
Brubeck continues.
In my mind I see a single man, wrapped in a dark overcoat, moving quietly through the rain-soaked street.
I change lanes and merge smoothly toward the downtown exit. Near Broadway and 23th Street the aroma of newly baked bread hangs heavy in the moist air.
It swirls and blends with the smell of my large coffee, and takes my mind places on this late, wet night that I haven’t visited in years.
The wet and the dark, conspire to make me feel cold. I pull my coat tighter around me and move quickly back to my car.
In front of me, a homeless man holds a damp cardboard sign. I empty the change from both pockets in his red, plastic cup.
He gives me a toothless smile and offers me a blessing from the Almighty.
Briefly, I remember my grandmother. She always admonished me to share with the poor and the homeless.
“Just in case the good Lord visits the Earth disguised as a begger,” she said.
I know, tonight, she would be proud.
I slide back behind the wheel and, quickly, the engine comes to life.
Brubeck resumes his music.
And I continue my way home.
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