Bus Stop

His grim fingers,
knotted by the years
spenting toiling
to make something
out of the dream,
clutch a newspaper
with yesterday’s date.

Still catching up
after all these years.

He wears the same hat
as me,
the Irish cap
I wear to look hip.
He wears it
to look like
he still has the edge
to power through
life.

That hat is probably
as old as I am,
made by people
who thought
products should last.
People whose
craftsmanship
probably outlasted
them.

I wonder if he
has someone
to go home to,
or if it’s the thing
we all fear:
nobody has
touched him
in years,
and a neighbor
will one day
report a smell
and
nothing
more.

-GD Butler

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