On the Bus

The old man

Huddled quietly

Into the bus seat

Tightly holding on to

A tired bouquet

Of wilted flowers


With sad eyes

Looking small and

Forlorn in wrinkled

Coat and pants

The flowers

Mirroring him


A slow sigh escapes

The wounded face

Eyes blindly staring

At nothing

Old lips moving

Without sound


The bus stops

He shuffles out

Carefully holding on to

The flower wannabes

Towards the gate

Of the cemetery