Why I call my deck 'Chaplin'
Gliding by, he tilted his hat in one direction and his
umbrella in the other.
Grey hat: bowler style. Brown suit.
White sneakers flashed (blue stripes, orange soles) pushing
a wooden deck.
He stopped. Started climbing. Was half way up the lamppost
before I even twigged.
Crazy!
The moon silk-screened the tree across the road – a mad-as t-shirt – giant disk the colour of a tooth, clouds encroaching like plaque.
Once up, Charlie Chaplin saluted then opened his umbrella.
And stepped out. First one foot, inching like a caterpillar. Then the other,
joyfully light.
This all sounds mental, but I swear it’s true: Mullen never
had such grace. Op-shop suit and hat on an electric wire, dancing.
I saw him smile. The tilt of his head, the lift of his knees.
He used his umbrella not to balance, but to wave.
I felt as if I’d looked away and missed something. Was it smoke or just cloud passing in front of the moon?
The night sky racked a billion sneakers but left one pair
behind, swinging gently on the wire – white with blue stripes.
Sweet.
If you see him, they’re still where he left them. But I’ve got his board.
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