The Man Across in Black
By Zach Khelah
On the table sits a roll of bread and a cup of coffee
I sit and wonder, “compared to this man I must be a softie
Clad in black, unkempt fingernails, where has he been?
Where is he going?
Pock marked, a rough beard, and slim figure
He leaves for a cigarette
Where does he sleep? It can’t be comfortable, I bet.
If asked what I thought of him, I would say:
“Your appearance looks as though you’ve fallen on hard times.”
What a relative phrase
The white twenty-one year old in the back corner chats about becoming independent.
Has this man only known self-support?
If I talked to him, what would be the rapport?
“Tell me about your life?”
“Was it easy?”
“Was it hard?”
“Is your body healthy?”
“Is your mind sound?”
I can only hope that when he ends up found
he will be happy, good, and better for it.
I glance up
He is gone
Only a cup of coffee left behind
