It was the silvery mane I first noticed as you walked down East Fiftieth.
A noble coiffe befitting the King of the Concrete Jungle. Such a mane could only be that of one oozing class, sophistication and savoir faire.
That confident stride; head held high; the camel-colored coat tailored to fit just right. At your neck an open starched white color and a glimpse of a fancy suit. The shoes for sure worth someone’s month’s rent; maybe enough to buy a Vespa.
King of the Concrete Jungle, sophistication and class, walking toward second without a care in the world. What do you do when not walking the street? You’re certainly intelligent, talented and wise, a role model of success and mentor to many.
My street light turned green, your walk-light red. My driver took the legal right on Second. You, oh King felt the need to cross nevertheless.
BANG! You smacked your fist on my car, to express who you thought owned the street.
With that one smack, it was shocking dear King.
Oh. Correction. Feral Cat in a Cashmere coat.