He gets on at Union Station
This little elf of a man in a trench coat and hound’s-tooth hat
He drops two over-stuffed briefcases at his feet
Bends to unzip one of the bags
Removes some kind of a trade journal
And opens to an article
Something about ethics
His forehead wrinkles with effort
As he reads
Without taking his eyes away from the article
He reaches is hand to his ear
Absently
Like a baby and his thumb
He pinches at something deep within the folds of his ear
His forefinger and thumb blanch with effort
As if to pull at a tiny scab
Again and again
Station after station
People get on
People get off
He continues to pick
Like a CD skipping
No longer a song
If only he would look up and see me
Read my face
Surely he would stop
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
If you see me in such an act, please, just tell me to stop.
flip this around and the old man is King. I am the old man, and I don't give a shit if you're watching me, or what you're thinking.
you knew i'd say that.
It is the God-given right of every man past the age of 50 to pick at SOMETHING in public.
But most of us prefer it is our full flowing mustachios.
Bona Fortuna!
I would, I did, and...I guess it is.
Post a Comment