May 2013
There is something fresh and poetic,
With a blind man eating his walking stick.
Standing at a bus stop on a thirty degree day,
Wrinkled face, open mouth, hair of gray.
Dark sunglasses, fingerless gloves,
worn-out shoes, and that coat he loves,
Just eating his walking stick,
And I drive by, just that quick.
With a blind man eating his walking stick.
Standing at a bus stop on a thirty degree day,
Wrinkled face, open mouth, hair of gray.
Dark sunglasses, fingerless gloves,
worn-out shoes, and that coat he loves,
Just eating his walking stick,
And I drive by, just that quick.
It was cold and I was a passenger for once, I drove by and there was this man standing at a bus stop...
