Sasha squeezed his eyes shut against the harsh elements of the mid-morning, sighing, he rubbed his temple which provided no relief to the monsoon swirling behind his skull.
Half-heartedly, a cigarette was lit and just as soon abandoned to the ground left of Sasha’s deep purple doc Martin’s; a pigeon curiously pecked  at the light cast by the studded jewels on his boots until, bored and irritated, Sasha curled his mouth in an aggressive decumbence hissed at the bird watching as it retired to a nearby tree.
A couple adorned with matching orange sweatbands panted along the path cut in front of Sasha’s chair, mothers leading their wide eyed children to play equipment hurried past him as though afraid he might be dangerous and the pigeons, those bloody pigeons, wisely exercised caution and kept a safe distance.
He sat and watched.
Everyone knew him, the old man who sat and watched the carousel in the summer, everyday sitting on his bench hardly moving an inch but to hiss at the pigeons.
Usually, watching the merry-go-round and round and up and down made Sasha feel somewhat merry inside; today as he watched the merry-go-round and round and up and down he felt angry the merry got to go round but the miserable were anchored to the ground.