Prescott Wright spent the night pondering, perched on a
hill over the city, and navigating his passages for nostril grit. He found his
haul to be impressively substantial, and, once mined, balled, and compacted, he flicked
the bits at the city beyond.
“Fuck
you people, “ he spoke aloud.
You see, all was not right for P. Wright. He was an angry
man, with undeniable purpose. Jailed and fined for a crime he could not have
committed. He had dutifully provided the proof, but evidence back then…well, it
just clogged the system, so they flushed P. Wright right down, and avoided the
annoyance. 'Good day.'
Make
that 90 days and pay the fine upon release.'
The
fine was of such a significant amount, that the only way Wright could possibly
pay was to post his own sign, out-front, saying “Farm For Sale”. His fields
fallen fallow, his crop to dust, in his mind his father is saying, “It’s
farming, son. Sometimes you bust”.
“Sorry,
Daddy, I broke it,” he spoke to the sky.
The sky murmured, then rumbled low, like gastric distress, thus causing P.
Wright to laugh-maniacal at the bad, sad, coincidence. This, before his soul caved in and he
wept at the rebuke. Foul as it may be. Another backhand from the old man, and this time P. knew he
had it coming. His father was a hard man, not a bad one, and P. accepted, what he perceived to be ‘just punishment’ as administered, because they both
knew, that would be his measure as a man.
Yet, here, as a man,
he wept
the child-tears
he'd avoided
all those
years
with no one
left to hear
V
