Words

The YouTube Tarot reader had told Lou that he would receive a letter, and he'd opened the mailbox to find three - all rejections of his poetry, same as the week/month/eternity before. Sighing and activating his self-esteem protection plan, Lou took his walk as intended, but stopped at the coffee shop for something with clouds of whipped cream on the top. "Gotta keep your head in the clouds," he whispered, taking it all to-go and moving to the park to sit until he'd finished it. Lou recited a couple of his poems to the falling leaves, the damp ground, the grey day - not wishing for different or better, but offering what he had to give. A young couple, cutting through the park on a diagonal, glanced at him cautiously - their looks marking him as The Old Dude That's Talking to Himself. "Owned in the beatdown," Lou said, smiling. There was nothing for it. There you sat, getting through it (whatever it was) and getting by, minding your own business, writing couplets in your head, and someone was going to get a psychopath vibe from that. "So be it." As a poet, Lou knew that words were dangerous, and wrangling them was the pretty much thankless job of unsung heroes.