Sweet Mr. Switters

Sweet Mister Switters with sable salmon sweaters is the famous greeter at Bighouse. Too many new moons and unfair blows peek steady, weary behind the most accepting heart.

I met him in the impossibly warm, fake summer of ’18. Less lost than his revolving door guests, he’s wont to wander with the wild ones hide in plain view.

Paid handsomely, he never touches the brass or steel. He waits until you open doors for him before he shares his stories, gravelly, gravely.

I’m afraid to ask about the limp. His hips have failed him, along with voice, but he pushes through their failure with aplomb, inspiring us.

I knew we would connect. I just didn’t know he already had lived my stories, truer, kinder, devoid of self pity.

Mister Switters, born to bear bitters of your ‘betters’, naked, unashamed, unadorned by titles or letters. Thank you for the lessons, little one. Too soon, sweet one, you’ll shed the fetters.

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