Riding my bicycle under the Hawthorne bridge, I looked over my left shoulder to see a quiet old reminder that only Angels may park under the bridge. Then I looked over my right shoulder at the ragged men of the street, hoary old men with expressive hair and vacant postures. The one’s sunburned skin has seen as much weather as the outside of a house - the story is obvious but what message does this skin carry? Why do I wonder how the other became slightly fat? Is it so comfortable to assume that inhabitants of the bridge will go without food? If this is where the Angels park, what prophesy does their ragged flesh bear up, and who conveniently swept that message under the bridge? God bless the quiet places, the hidden stories that weren’t meant for every ear. God bless dyslexia.
