The tweed of his jacket catches my eye-
Faded browns weave between washed reds.
Worn oval patches guard his elbows
As if he spent a lot of time
With his head resting in his hands.
Sitting behind his desk,
Letting the worries flood his mind.
Rectangular glasses lay a foot away from his hand.
Reading into the late hours of the night.
“Theories of Thought” lies next to him…
The pages creased and the binding beginning to loosen.
He has spent hours pouring over the philosophies of others,
Yet still cannot figure out his own,
Mismatched socks stand out
He hasn’t really paid attention in awhile
His mahogany dress shoes have seen every season,
Dark circles rest underneath his eyes.
He glances up to see me in the hallway
The tweed of his jacket had caught my eye