There is a man on a street corner
who is crying.
Stop.
Look back.
Repeat.
There is a man on a street corner
who is crying.
His fingers are craggy,
rough-knuckled,
bent and trembling.
They brush harshly at the tears.
Stop.
Look back.
Repeat.
A man passes.
The man on the street corner
who is crying.
Then a woman.
And then another man, a little boy in tow.
The boy plods along,
each step clumsily deliberate,
in his overalls.
Stop.
Look back.
Repeat.
"Daddy,"
the little boy says,
"why is that old man crying?"
"I don't know,"
the father says.
And they walk on.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
There is a man on a street corner
who is crying.
Stop.
Look back.
Repeat.
There is a man on a street corner
who is crying.
His fingers are craggy,
rough-knuckled,
bent and trembling.
They brush harshly at the tears.
Stop.
Look back.
Repeat.
A man passes.
The man on the street corner
who is crying.
Then a woman.
And then another man, a little boy in tow.
The boy plods along,
each step clumsily deliberate,
in his overalls.
Stop.
Look back.
Repeat.
"Daddy,"
the little boy says,
"why is that old man crying?"
"I don't know,"
the father says.
And they walk on.