In Stir

The man squirms at the fringe of the Farmer’s Market, claims his cranny, and wild smiles a grimace.

His quarrels turn to spittle across the sidewalk. Viscous, thick as lubricant, his words drool from the corners of his downturned mouth onto the front of his threadbare shirt.

Leaning forward he defies gravity, hovering face-down as if feet are locked in concrete. Jerking violently, he straightens then slides down the side of the building that guards his back until he sits in quasi-lotus.

“Tourniquet” he mumbles.

Just that one word escapes as he pulls a grimy bag with a smiley face over his head.