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.
Roger Singer 