He had a tattoo on his forearm

of a face, faded through the years,

even he can’t remember who it is.

A cat rubs against his leg. He sips casually

on a root beer. His boots dull from travel.

Hair black as a night cave, pushed back

flat like a helmet shined with grease.


A dungaree shirt and pants are his armor;

cerulean blue has been washed out of

his wardrobe. A large belt buckle adorns

the front and center of him.


His glasses are clear, though a memory he

confesses now lacks clarity.


He says, “This town is just a wide sidewalk

in nowhere.”


He mumbles something about home and then

smiles before leaving.


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