The Lot

Clockwork, morning after morning, he’s there. I wave. He’s been around, seen things, and significant changes not many get to witness, be a part of, a country in transition seeking an identity that, not that long ago, was violently thrust upon them.

It’s a small town, time not quite that of the city. The lot, his lot, is soon to be filled with those in need of liquid sustenance, so he sets to work, broom in hand, leaf by fallen leaf, meticulous. Do they notice, or care?

The effects, as time, slow to make their way out here. The thoughts of a future, and freedom, were all but swept into the pile.