It was not an old man or a middle-aged woman, but a young boy. It was not a blue sequinned pants wearer or a top hat sporter, but an orange t-shirt donner. It was not a marimba banger or a glockenspiel striker, but a whistle blower. It was not a watcher or a sleeper, but a deep thinker.
It was not his mortal enemy or his fourth grade English teacher, but his best friend. It was not his foot or his torso, but his arm. It was not underneath or behind, but around. It was not a solitary man or a gang of thieves, but a crowd. It was not surrounding them or close by, but in the distance. It was not a dance performance or a sonnet contest, but an eyeing session.
It was not a complacent donkey or a somnolent sadhu, but a nervous grandmother. It was not a flyer or a swimmer, but a passerby. It was not a liminal message or an evident display, but a secret object. It was not above her brassiere or beside her pants, but under her head shawl.
It was not earlier or later, but meanwhile. It was not in front or beside, but behind. It was not a lascivious teenager or a gregarious infant, but a serious man. It was not a confused stare or an ignorant gaze, but a knowing look. It was not toward them or backward, but the other way.
This is not a reprimand or a request, but a thank you for reading. Later on I may post not an epic poem or a cat video, but a book review. This is not hello or goodbye, but see you next time.