-Autumn Without Family-
He sat, or rather, the
bench held him
while he curled like paint flakes
and watched for the bus.
Breath percolated out of his nose
as if unsure.
Short motes, and long ice trails.
He briefly adjusted his woolmitts from
folded
to crossed with elbows.
But the real cold was in the set
of his face. That
sat stronger than the rest
of him, or even the bench.
Dignity freshly siphoned
from his shoulders.
His grey pant-legs quaked
above his shoes.
Shivering shins
tapping out an argument
between being old and being free.
Where he was going was
not home. And where he left
was just as empty.
The bus curchunked, and
swung its grimeglass doors.
There was a grateful air
in the way it swallowed him.
