What does he see, the man who sits at the bus stop daily.
His dark hair looks washed but people go by warily,
He wears the same tan coat, will he when it is sunny,
                                                          ­                                 He stares straight ahead.
His skin is so pale, like he has seen some place dark,
I don't see him come or go, he stays there parked,
on that bench with that vacant stare, is he stark

raving mad, alone he
sits still like a stone
who has sank to
rock bottom,
waiting, seeking
hoping, needing
a breath,
of air,
to make it
through the
day or the
surface...