Trundled Round and Round

The sun strut like a rooster, stoking the sky with a fiery cockscomb of light. The legless man stippled on the stubs of his missing legs and took in the glory of the day. Legless as he was, he trundled round and round, punting his handcart across the blacktop, his face nursing the sun like a suckling child. He had days when punting and trundling was delightful, the sun a milk-laden cuckoldry of lipid joy. On days like these he felt at one with everything, even the angry man with the coal-pitch eyes who stood in front of the Waymart twiddling his thumb (for he had but one, the missing one having been severed at the knuckle) and cursing at anyone within cursing distance.