Stranger

I see an old man walking down a nearly empty street.

He carries an umbrella, but it catches no rain.

The sun slaps his slumped shoulders

and he does not see a truck that nearly hit him

when he crossed the street.

I wonder where he is going,

who he goes home to.

His salty expression makes me curious

to explore the canyons

in the crows feet

at his corners.

What is contained

in the cesspools of his shoes?

He is carrying something much heavier

than his autumn jacket.

It is February,

but he walks in October.


Rachel J. Clark