He’s moving to a song he knows and it’s a song we’ve heard before but can’t place.
As he moves, the sweat, sores, and scratches stay in place. What’s inside him is externalized.
He doesn’t care about our inner secrets, our inner fears, our hates, our loves that set us howling upon each other. It’s out/in him.
He’s howling, loudly, to someone that isn’t there, but we recognize his attempt to get through. At times, we think he’s trying to get our attention. We hear, but don’t want to hear. We shake it off, thinking he’s outside us.
His voice seems primal, an odd sort of desire. We recognize its motions.
Shirtless, he scares us. He slams the metal lid of a garbage can on the sidewalk, a sidewalk he will sleep on, a sidewalk we walk upon…every day.
We don’t help him.
We expect someone else to talk to him, clean his face, recognize the song and put it in a playlist, so when it plays, text pops up, telling us what it is.
We must move to a song we know. It’s a song he’s heard before but can’t place.