King of the Fire Hydrant
By day he pretends
To be a janitor
Spending his time
Sitting on the corner hydrant
Enjoying nature's comforts
Fresh air
And the Sun
Watching and
Seeing everything.
The locals come to him for advice
Or to converse
In the privacy of the
Cement square
Allocated to a corner.
If a stranger asks questions
He shakes his head
Signifying he knows nothing
Just sitting there
A Gypsy
Feeling life's rhythm
Pass like a gentle upward breeze
As mothers and children
Rush by
Old men walk slowly
Women carry groceries
Delivery men stop
And nod his way.
Newspaper folded under
An iron throne
His face curls up in an evil yawn
When the street entertainment bores him
Other times he carefully peels a fruit and eats it slowly
Enjoying all its juices
Secretly relishing his role
As a troubadour
In an indifferent city.
He knows the comings and goings
Of all the tenants
Mostly young and naïve
Paying outrageous rents
For closet size apartments
And he treats them
According to his mood
For he is the King of the Fire Hydrant.
Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2009
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