Waiting at a bus stop,
the old man stands.
His eyes flick towards me,
and then to his shoes.
He shuffles side to side,
his head bends down low.
He knows me from somewhere
but i don't know him.
His head is almost bald,
with wispy grey hair,
circling above his neck
left ear to right ear
Each holding two earrings;
dangling gold crosses.
Yet his features are dark,
his face a shadow.
He has rough razor-burn,
tufts of growth are missed,
his eyebrows thick and long,
drooped over browned eyes.
His bottom lip protrudes
and his forehead is creased,
his teeth are worn, yellowed
by tea or tobacco.
He is a short old man,
probably 5,4.
His shoulders are wide
and his arms thick.
From under his sleeve ticks
a leather-strapped watch.
The damned watch that he wore,
since I was a baby.
