Mediations on a Man at a Bus Stop

The concerto of a broken man,

As the flick of ash falls to the ground,

His hollowed eyed stare,

Can be heard from miles around,

Rehashing old thoughts,

He sits in his trench coat and frock,

Both wrinkled and worn,

As if he never throws anything away until it’s torn,

It’s day like any other in Pittsburgh,

Dark overcast clouds and thunder can be heard,

Rain dropping lightly as if created from the humidity,

And a stickiness that seems as if it wants to last into perpetuity,

None of this bothers him,

Not the buses that pass, with their loud growling engines,

Or the pedestrians pedating like hamsters on wheel,

His gazed is locked on nothing and cold as steel,

Hopefully he is thinking about something important,

Like how to solve world hunger in a way that would be concordant,

Or maybe it is simple like, did that steak I ate have red number 9 in it?

The cigarette burned lower in his hand now,

Almost to his knuckles the tip came, would he let out a ow?

It started crisping his skin,

Like cooking chicken with gin,

But his gaze continued,

Like he was trying to bore a hole with his eyes he ensued,

There had to be a reason for this scowl,

I had to ask with a howl,

But the fear set in,

As my heart beat became thin,

What would happen?

Could it be he is just kinda napping?

His aura was large and mean,

Would he turn into a monster hulking and green,

Just then his bus pulled up,

And he was gone with his thought.

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