passersby
in the weekday early evening hours, people on the yawning downtown vancouver streets carry the stuff of their lives with them … there are never any children, after 6:00, in that place, rarely a dog and seldom an ancient
we stroll, amble, plod, march, mosey, and text at assorted speeds and trajectories in a myriad of postures, positions, body languages, fashions, affectations, sizes and colors … we do not acknowledge one another
we – each of us – have our own story of fate, fortune and folly … our various levels of sagacity in the game-of-life hinted at by diverse expressions of scowls-to-smiley lip curls … the labels in our clothing – less definitive – though, many of the suited-ones, look beat-and-bushed – heads hanging heavy – as in: bad day … or bad week … or relationship … gone bad … street people mingle in the mix
we are all the same – at that moment – in that place we are . . . . . . . . . . passersby . . . . . . . . . . in every sense of the word – and we take to the role with the studied street-smart acumen we began honing with our first timid steps onto the playgrounds of our lives
eventually, we get into cars or buses or board the skytrain … we enter restaurants or condos or plop ourselves down on sidewalks huddled against concrete facades … having passed by … and having been passed by
