Old Dawn

A man at once gloomy and fetching visited my place of work today. His visage was not unfamiliar, my having spied him in his respective place of work, this time he was with small child, its big brown eyes all limbs in the, by contrast, hyper industrial shopping trolley fold-out compartment. He asked me if we, my place of work, supplied rain coats for children, I replied, "I am not too familiar with this department, I will just go and check for you". Surmising the answer was no I delivered this information. However, I longed to convey the desire I had to make his small child a hooded oilskin cloak from baby seal, caught, skinned and cured by my hand. I willed that he would share this vision I had of us, together, but insurmountably alone, inhabiting an island, probably Finnish. We would eat pale things, fish, and fried parsnip, drink beer. It would seem that nothing could possibly excite us, but there would be a wholesomeness to this apparent lack. I monitered his presence about the aisles. I imagined his ink wash deep set eyes staring deafly through fog, his patina of tattoos alongside with fish scales, and lichen, weathered wood, willing, or perhaps just whiling, away the present fluorescence.