Saturday Downtown
A sister and brother walking downtown, shops and shows and trolleys; smells of dimestore popcorn, caramel apples, warm nuts, candies, lunch counters, blue plate specials.
Sheltered beneath the overhangs and awnings, they, sister and brother cling, walking cautiously, as if to touch a stranger might bruise and hurt; he, weak, sickly, leans on her, she supports him, with body, both arms, both hands.
He's in a cheap pair of dark gabardines, a white starched cotton shirt stained here and there with rust; she's in a stiff dark dirty skirt, white blouse, funny little hat; both down at the heel.
Handsome though, but for the fear apparent on their face, the fear of touching, being touched, of being seen so pained, so poor; of not being seen at all.
2006 July 14
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