Purposeful flesh, meaning, I explained pigment to a blind man on the bus. His face contorted a Rolodex of reaction testing the mettle of each wrinkle, his pink nose never settled on one wrinkle, but rather three folds of furrow deep-set as scars. When I told him to relax and that he had pigment too he asked what color. And I said,
“Does it really matter?”
And he replied,
“Does a sunrise?”
And we sat there staring at nothing together enjoying the complexity of our imaginations. When the bus struck a rumble strip I moaned through a hiccup, my dull note bounced with the bus. A sleeping child aroused their consciousness with a cry. His mother pulled him into her bosom and petted the tears off his cheeks. She then wiped the tears onto her jeans moistening the denim while the child arched his neck and widened his mouth and closed his eyes. I envied the child’s willingness to give up and accept their mother’s comfort as the final answer to duress. Before I could compliment the nurturing scheme we drifted across another rumble strip. But I kept my mouth closed and the child kept his open with silence. We all sat there accepting that eventually we’d bounce again and somehow that calmed us into a docile state observed often in slaughter houses and voting booths.