Curing Boredom

I have this friend, a regular gallivanter who frequents thrift stores. He was always searching with compass and intuition. He had a North Star for a heart, a beacon I can follow on dark, dull nights, when boredom and redundancy permeate the air like a warm mist. When that mist comes to rest, like Sandburg’s cat, rubbing up against my legs tangling my limbs in melancholy, he comes like a swift breeze, blowing away the fog with a thrift store, ten-dollar trash can and a little league baseball bat. With a sly smile and firm swing, metal reverberates in the air and my skin dances a merry foxtrot. My hand grips the grainy wood, I swing hard, laughing in the clear night air.