His hands were soft, unused.

Heavy labor failed with him.  His eyes

were volumes of quiet words.

There was a presence of confidence,

though slight like random breezes.

His shirt was weather thinned.

Shoes labored with dirt from long roads.

His hat was faded by the suns attack.

He half smiled, agreeing not to disagree,

providing a calm will, avoiding the fear

of being misunderstood.

He blinked nervously and then casually

looked back as if searching for something

once owned.  He smiled and left, not waiting,

eager to move beyond; maybe there is his place.

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