Frank

Word Count: 330

Frank sits on his dirty comforter watching the people go by with heavy lidded eyes from a shaded building alcove. A lonely coffee cup stands vigil over him, the last caring vessel, while the whole world passes by on the city street. Frank imagines he is watching a movie containing all the world's humanity in it. Every possible story unfolds in front of him as he stares on with the morbid fascination of the condemned. He could see his own life in the movie, replayed in infinite, reenacted by a multitude of characters every day, the same joys and disappointments mirrored on the actors faces. He sits there, beyond life, beyond time with a bodhisattva’s resigned clairvoyance. His vision dims receding to a last pin prick of light that frame a young boy’s face, the last tired desire of a burned out soul.
It isn’t until Frank's body starts to smell in the midday heat that someone takes notice of him. A sad routine proceeds from there, thankless city workers take charge and a short procession of uniforms becomes Frank’s funeral procession. Confirmed dead, zipped up, packed up, shipped out, and finally delivered to a place with similarly digressed human beings. Relieved of its plastic shroud, his body lays out naked across a cool metal table; it tells simply of a life lived and a life lost. Only the coroner, a jaded, middle aged man, with tired wrinkles around his eyes takes an interest in the late vagrant’s story. His eyes wide and frozen, gazing intensely at his softly glowing screen, giving him something he never expected to find, a glimpse of his own melancholy past. His lips form words that die prematurely, but they would have said “Father”. His composure returns after a moment, his hand very deliberately reaches for his coffee cup, his eyes turn to the window. He gazes contemplatively out at the people passing by on the street, sometimes it feels like he’s watching a movie...