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