Had a battle with the wardrobe. Nothing matched. Plaids and stripes collided, like atomic collisions, so disaster inevitably happened. No one wanted to be my friend. No one wanted to be near me. It was a plague of the fashion variety. Everyone thought it would kill them if they got too close. They turned and ran. 

Now sitting here in the park plaza, buildings oppress on every side, though grass and trees create peace. I can see the method of my outfit symbolically in my surroundings. The good stuff is here with the grass and trees. The good stuff is here, though in small amounts. All else is a mismatched disarray of concrete, steel, and glass. The city grows taller than the natural things. Even here in the park there’s an invasion of concrete in the walkways and the drainage gutters.

On a bench an old man waits. For what he waits, I do not know. Not me. He does not wait for me. He seemed a bit shocked to see me sitting on another bench within the park. The shock didn’t dislodge him from his waiting, or his position. His waiting is as slow and uneventful as the grass growing. And yet, his assembly of clothing is far better than mine. I can’t judge him. I have no leverage. Not that I would approach and disturb his calm meditation anyway. His peace is complementary to the beautiful greenery. They’re so similar as to almost be one. Perhaps in a few years (if this man could wait that long) the park and the old man would assimilate. Tree roots would slowly mold themselves to encircle his feet. His thin grey hair would gradually turn green. Ears, nose, cheeks would become like the bark on a tree, hardened by elements. He would move no more from his bench, but his eyes would still search and wait and watch, until one day, the wood might overtake his eyes too.

Then, I might return to view the park, to enjoy its peace and pleasant smells. The old man might still be there. No one can be sure if I will recognize him. No one can predict if he will be shocked at my future collisions; pink shirt, purple pants, yellow socks, red shoes.

Published by Kurt Gailey

This is where I'm supposed to brag about how I've written seven novels, twelve screenplays, thousands of short stories, four self-help books, and one children's early-reader, but I'd rather stay humble. You can find out about things I've written or follow my barchive (web archive, aka 'blog) at or follow me on twitter @kurt_gailey. I love sports and music and books, so if you're an athlete or in a band or you're a writer, give me a follow and I'll most likely follow you back. I've even been known to promote other people's projects.

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