Homestyle Croutons

He figured he'd go down in history as one of two things. Either he set his sights too high for love or he was a picky, picky bastard. He had no idea which was more accurate. There were times he really wanted an objective referee to rule on the matter but he had trouble getting a definitive answer. As he fell forward through life, he'd found love under rocks, on shelves, in the mirror, in a cage, on a pedestal, naked on a horse, and coiled like a viper. He jumped in at each opportunity. He wore many hats on love's stage. He played the friend, provider, a leech, a confidant, a rendezvous, an excuse, the pawn, a rebound, and a sidewalk. He never had any doubt he'd marry. He hoped he'd have children. And here, across from a pubic library, in a park in the middle of flat city. He sat with perfect posture, alone.

Twenty years ago he busked these same streets for coffee and thrills. Behind a hotel he found a box labeled "Homestyle Croutons." He propped it up as a flag to a country. Love in the name of a band. He sang of love to come as much as love that was. He was awful but joy rang from his guitar and people listened to hope twanging from a string. He belted and raged from his throat because he had no sense of objectivity. It was the pure bliss of ignorance back then.

Today, he saw the tracks of the past. He remembered he didn't notice the shadows from the future. Here he was today, that same man. Sitting on the bench, vibing on yesterday.