The old man sitting
How he sits on that stool
On the edge of that slim slab of cement by the road
Every day as it corrodes
The fray of sunlight lays blankets on that scalding and scathing pavement
And he stares
There is a thought behind his eyes
Or one too many
But I look into them, as though he were right in front of me
Though he stays yards away
He is on his own deserted island
Seemingly at will
But I can see in his drab that there is too much heat for his feet to support his ankles
As it crawls beneath his trousers
He is not brave enough to climb up the stairs to his room
Until he\'s seen someone he cares for
Spanish architecture in the oval entrances and charred, beige clay
Only two stories high
Every building is a part of the whole
But he sits there, idly
Completely alone
With me.
Continuance:
I think he\'d reject the cigarette, and there are several ways he can do this. I\'m stuck at which one he\'d choose. But if I were to project, he\'d wave his hand and go on a verbal rampage. \"Yo dejé de fumar hacen cincuenta años.\" Y yo diría \"Cuántos años tenías?\" He\'d say something along the lines of 14-15 years old with a smile. \"No sabes cuántas cigarillos yo fumaba en un día. Mi papá cogía los cartones de la calle por $5 y los fumaba por semana. Un paquete entero me fumaba en vez de asistir a la escuela. Cuándo murió por cáncer, dejé de fumar así\" and he\'d snap his fingers. \"Ahora no pasa nada. Toditos todos muriendo de pulmonía y cáncer y tengo 60 años sin problema de salud ninguna.\" Yo diría \"Ni mental?\" A el le da pausa, pero pronto rompe a reír.