The old man on the bus sits with lips pursed,
contemplating the youth in rebellion, the youth.
His glasses are glasses upon glasses, clip on sunglasses.
I watch him watch, each glance from head to toe,
a slight grimace, and an unapologetic turn in disgust.
I think the pink headphones and dreads did him in.
His pale skin, like my skin, reflects the sunlight,
an opaque sheet of paper over pounds of flesh,
millions of cells working simultaneously to sit upright.
I miss my grandfather's skin, his firm grasp.
Is this man on the bus a grandfather? He seems
like he would soon be forgotten to time.
Lazily, he catches me watching him. I look quickly away,
check my shopping bags out of habit.
I don't look back at the old man and time forgets him.
This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.