El Hombre de la Pierna del Paso Torpe

El hombre en el sombrero et el hombre de la pierna del paso torpe parley avec la puta grandee, qui parley avec la puta hermana, c’est la vie, la vie de siècle. Ici, voila, crests la femme en retard, la femme qui parole avec de Jesús, le plus grandee mot du vie! Icy la, el hombre ápodo parley avec el hombre de la limosnas, le plus grosz mamma enfant, crests do mage, roué, crests do mage. Knowing that he didn’t know what he knew, or anything worth knowing, the shamble leg man fell into a fit of pique and ran running into the street, arms flailing. ‘…surely night must fall, and with haste…’ whimpered the shamble leg man, the sky darkening round the edges. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, so onward he went, the awkwardness as plain as clothes on a clothesline. ‘…el hombre en el sombrero, de la pierna del paso torpe…’. He straightened his coat sleeve and fell headlong into the day, not knowing what lay in store for him. ‘…why is there nothing rather than something…? This will not do, he thought; all this kibitzing and tomfoolery. Only fools and oafs give in to foolishness, men with nothing better to do than cast the last stone, men of big littleness, the slow witted and feeble. Images of the grotesque picked at his thoughts, big little people with little big heads and small little arms, small little big people with big small little feet that tramped the sideways cautiously, the bedridden and infirmed, palsied and jackbooted, simple people with big little plans, plans that were meant to change the course of their lives. Out of courtesy, nothing more, the shamble leg man went about his business, not batting an eye or casting the first stone. Today he would buy a new pair of loafers, wingtips with little perforations in the tops, then quickening home sit in front of the fire, the one he would light with crumpled newsprint and a long wooden match, a fat yellow moon belling the night sky, everyone asleep, everyone except him.