There’s An Old Man At A Bus Stop

Boots buffed. Gray hair neatly dressed. Slacks formal & pressed.
He stares at nothing in particular…a spot in passing:

the lady & her poodle  coed with briefcase & helmet   the sun reflecting
passing traffic in the windows of Fincas Forcadell…

He’s folded his arms across his chest but is not defiant rather, content &
lost for these few moments…to contemplate his horizon through

clear brown eyes / content to wait for that certain bus which he knows
will be coming soon.