At the end of the dusty road
where the road yawns with boredom at the stillness,
you would meet a man.
One who walked like he did not care,
laughed loud to hide the tears behind his eyes
and the chest pain from his heartbreaks.
He also scratched his thick beard
just so you would be distracted from its length when he laughed.
Watching him laugh was a sight to behold
for he shook his head up and down
as his jaws tightened with the force of sad stories.

In the afternoons, he sat in his rocking chair
because his bed with the thin mattress had hardened his back,
from the thoughts of his failed relationship.
You see, his woman had promised him, seven fine children.
But she had left him for his best friend, the one who drove a noisy Subaru.
At night, he spent hours staring at the ceiling
twitching his face in thought as if to ask questions.
But, the ceiling as always remained unexpressive and silent.
Providing no solutions for it was made of concrete.
And when he slept,
he did not sleep like a child after breastfeeding.
He instead slept like a man with a ransom on his head.
Today, he sits and pauses for a picture beneath an art piece
the one he received when he left his father's house
to venture on his own because he had become a man.
As the camera clicks away, he smiles and freezes
to give the viewer the illusion that his life is perfect.
But deep down, all he needs is a cold Tusker and a loud laugh
that would make him forget how his back hurt
when he lay face up in bed every night
wondering when his big break would come.