He was old, and by that,
I mean that he was hunched over like the street lights.
The wrinkles on his face leading the rest of himself
as he used the crosswalk in front of me.
White hair and torn up clothes
to go with the duct tape on his tennis shoes.

I was jealous of his cane,
which he used, not to walk, but as a hook to drag a milk crate
full of groceries that he had no chance of lifting,
let alone carrying home.
Orange juice, and the leafy tops of his celery sticks
are all that I could make out before the light turned green.

— leest1 —


About Lee Stone -leest1-

The world is changing: Stand for Something. Soporte Para Algo. Independent Poet/Artist. Portland, OR ·
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