Man At The Bus Stop

Sat alone at the bus stop
seemingly lost in bittersweet memories
shivering in your thin woolen jumper.

Eyes closed under heavy rimmed glasses
I look at your hands clasped together over your thin stomach.
Loose, wrinkled skin,
dark patches,
blue veins standing proud.

I try to imagine you young.
Thick dark hair, big white smile,
a petite brunette linked
with your muscular arms.

But the image fades as soon as it arrives.
The small white haired man before me is all I can see.


I feel naive, ashamed and young.
The lines etched on your face
tell tales I will never know,
though I wish I could.