Deja Vu


I always see him. Whether on a stroll with my wife, a nightly jog through the highstreet, or as I drive by the wide pedestrian bend — he’s there, on the corner.
“They must be a profitable enterprise,” I told my wife one evening, her petite nose behind a coffee cup.
“How else could they afford him to stand with a sign all day?”
I cut short my midnight run from my usual route to the bleak, personless bend. Slouched on a roadblock, “Superstore” sign in hand. I asked, to no avail, what he was doing;
Then panted home for bolt-cutters.

by Ryan Finnerty



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