By Kira A. Moore
Each day, I would see him.
An old man in faded blue coveralls that were
a size too big,
A worn baseball cap, its’ logo long missing,
sat upon a wild tangle of silver white hair,
the bill pulled down until it almost covered
storm gray eyes.
His face, lined and creased,
weather browned and worn,
reminded me of an old recliner
mom hid in the basement.
His chair leaned back, on two legs, against
the wall of the old grocery store, who’s sign
still proclaimed: “Groceries” and “Hardware”,
though all they sold now was lottery
tickets and self storage space.
Seemingly as disinterested in the people
passing by, as his old pickup truck, that sat in the
space closest to the corner, looking as worn and
old as it’s owner.
Primer and paint, of faded gray and blue,
fought a battle long lost, against the rust that
has invaded in broad fronts, of oxidation and decay.
A spider web, beaten and torn, hangs in
determined rags, from the mangled remains
of the passenger side mirror. Its’ creator
huddling at its’ fringe, shell shocked, but
unable to abandon the ruins.
I wonder what thoughts he had,
(the old man, not the truck),
as he sat there, in faded blue, watching.