broken glass.
gum wrapper.
empty snapple bottle.
curiously, grains of sand
reminiscent
of the beach.
cars speed past
without a glance
in my direction
as i lean into the street
and look left
for a late
number seven bus.
to my right
a faded fedora shades
an old man’s
worn and weathered face
and fractured smile
which bobs
step by step
until he reaches
the rusted bench
and takes a seat.
