The Passerby
The wind rustles leaves against his dirty ankles.
His focus is three feet to the front at the ground.
Oversize clothes hang from his frame.
A patina of ground in dirt and grime covers a slouchy hat.
Trickles over his out thrusting grey hairs, lacquering his outer garments.
No one stops.
No one asks if he needs help.
Very few look his way.
Suddenly he stops and squats next to the road.
Drawing pictures only he can see.
Erasing the dust and drawing again.
No one notices as they pass by.
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