bus stop

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
looking for a late
number seven bus.

battered fedora.
beneath, an old man’s
weathered face
and fractured smile
bobs step by step
until he reaches the rusted
bench and takes a seat.