My concern is
about that old man. He follows me -
always there,
with his worn clothing and
ragged
manners.
He seems to
know me.
His hands are
course - having gripped
the wooden
wheelbarrow handles over
years of dirt
and rock. His shoes
like those of
a barbers -
worn with
miles - yet
having gone
nowhere.
He concerns me
when I look at him.
What is it he
wants? Where is he
going? What thoughts are hidden
behind those eyes?
I just may
confront him
the next time
we
shave.
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