Mag Mille

Mindfully traversing Michigan Avenue on a Monday afternoon means encountering a dizzying array of points along the human spectrum, details your average commuter may ignore or just miss altogether as they continue along their quest for a life worth living easier–easier than what, I’ll never know.

An elderly lady relegated to a wheelchair wears a sour puss as she munches on a processed snack still halfway-ensconced in its wrapper. Two feet away in a stroller that places him at the same eye level sits a toddler, working away at an orange wedge that has likely been primed and prepped by his mother, though I wasn’t present when the handoff took place. For the moment, she’s standing several yards away with a selfie stick, capturing an image of the frivolity she’d once taken for granted that now slowly slips from her clutches.

An unopened sleeve of saltines rests its weary crumbs against a street lamp whose daily duty has yet to be fulfilled, two very unlikely partners on a sidewalk where beggars apparently can be choosers.

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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