The Guy Under The Bridge

I went to Mavericks. Although I am a vegan, I went to Mavericks. I ate a hotdog. Beef.

There was a man talking beneath the underpass. He wore an army shirt, had missing teeth, and babbled to himself.

I thought I saw a gun in his hand but I did not. I even said, hey, is that a gun?

He smiled.

I ate the hotdog. Went back to the casino. I played.

The next day I found this:

He was missing, but his sign was on the ground. I noticed Gideons Bible. Someone handed him a Bible as if it were enough to be, okay.

And his handwriting, it looks like Davids. Actually, it looked very much like David’s handwriting.

David, a long, lost, friend. He is the message in the bottle.

I made a sound that was half blaspeme, half irony. I said, “as if the bible were enough” because some of the people in Mesquite judged me for my apppearance, chased me around and thought too much about me instead of worrying about the man under the bridge.

He was probably born here. I was born here, somewhere on a far land, and I was spit out.

And Gideon, as if your bible is enough to locate lost dreams.

I had just purchased a bible myself; It is white.

How many bibles have I owned?

And I am still here. On the street, just not under the bridge.

I scrolled through my phone, but could not see it.

I, closed my eyes and slept under the sun, after thinking, instead of minding my business, shouldn’t they worry about the guy under the bridge?

Here is another bible, I tossed away:

Don’t cry.

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