The school sign that stands
alone,
surrounded by grass,
has been painted,
the champions yellow-gold
colour
and with purple, fit for a
coronation,
yet winter has made, it
look old and dusted in brown powder,
while rain washed-lines
run down, stained with rust.

The old woman at the bus stop,
was dressed beautifully, when
she looked at me, and saw an
unshaven
split, wild boar, beard, she
stepped back in distrust.

My lonely "Good Morning"
echoed,
with my heavy sounding,
foot falls under the shelter
of the empty, new bus stop,
near the school's weathered sign.

I ran the gauntlet
at a walk, groups of students,
come by slowly, filling
the sidewalk, full.

Their faces shine with contempt for me,
as I walk to the shoulder-cold, side of
the road as
they talk,
they chatter,
making what they have
to say matter more,
when others try to interject.

Few, even, attempt to make space,
they don't share well or anymore,
unless,
with their thumbs to text.

The four eyes I have, and the
brown long low duck-bill brimmed
hat point down an empty sidewalk,
my worn boots, and my
footfalls echoes,
are now lost,
in the trees and the
rush of morning traffic.

I look toward where I work,
my breath sharply catches,
as I fight,
back the panic
of another day
away,
surrounded but
alone,
away from home.