His work is done

A middle-aged man in corduroy. A knight of the street. Jacket grooved like gently raked sand. Trousers the width of his ego. Shoes as polished as mirrors; reflecting, multiplying his majesty.

He moves like a hot panther. He knows what he wants and he’s read somewhere on the internet how to get it. He pauses, alert now. He knows he’s being watched. Elegantly he lopes towards the nearest graffitied wall. Framing his look against the aggressive patterns is unthinking, instinctive. He tweaks his trousers to display maximum volume, and squints into the haze. His work is done.

This is a man who knows he’s a man. This is a man who knows what it means to be a man. This is a man of answers. He just can’t remember the questions.