Diana Huntress

Lackluster

A hand, looking more like a brown leather glove, parts the tall dry grasses near the railroad tracks. Frank's gaunt frame emerges, yawning, stretching, shaking off his beige bed remnants. He affixes his once-snazzy bowler hat over his stringy, sparse hair and polishes the pewter handle of his cane with the fraying corner of his silk jacket. The sun faded out hours ago, and the moon has yet to make headway in its struggle against the thick cloud cover. The grey gloom gives him several minutes of luxurious repose. He squints and checks his pocket watch, the gold leaf polished almost entirely away, revealing the cheap base metal underneath. He spits carefully into a dingy handkerchief and bends down, gingerly, to shine his shoes. He stares for a time at the deep branching crevasses that have taken over the better part of the leather loafers before stuffing the cloth back into his jacket pocket.