A stranger passes by
wearing dusty, old sneakers,
neck hung low, eyes
exhaustively licking the concrete.
Dried romance lingers
on his lips, fading with the color
of his once
not-so-white skin. A newspaper dangles
loosely between his
fingers as if it weights far too much
for any average mortal
to carry.
He’s tired, no doubt.
Tired of life and its complications.
There he goes, tie
twisted, expression as damp
as the sweaty tears
frolicking against his pupils;
one foot before the
other,
memories failing to
remain like the hair on his small head;
a vault that used to
possess the most brilliant of minds—
not quite Einstein’s,
mind you, but one familiar with the
definition of
“living”: adventure, family, air!
And now..
His face lowers into
the stench of malcontent,
shoulders drooping
with the stress of decaying skin
and heavy, lonely midnight meals.
