The plaster statue of the benefactor moved, albeit slightly. The tilt of the head slightly altered its angle. Leaning more left. Or perhaps more right. Bereft of patience, I thought I could study it no longer, even should it move again, more forcefully, and redirected my cynical gaze to the treeless concrete plaza where weekend buskers plied their oatmeal trades. A snare drum buzzed. Someone blew a coronet. A ballerina in a dirty pink tutu pirouetted. Then the plaster statue of the benefactor moved again! And a bowling pin juggler with a killer man bun exclaimed, Fuck you, statue!
Sal Difalco lives in Toronto. His short prose and poetry have recently appeared in Cafe Irreal, Gone Lawn, and Right Hand Pointing.