Passing By

“was taking a bus to Seattle”,

he said,

as the cars stopped for the light

“someone stole my grip”

and the faded story

borrows

his wind sand eyes

that startle

from his ridged

white of clay

Two crutches and a leg

hold him aloft

like musseled pilings under a pier

as a smile grips his face

and a grey coat

hardly noticed

tightens his neck

A pinned up pant leg

locks his stories

In a rear view mirror

like desert fences

to hold back the wind

I listen

as the story cools his eyes

When hats tip

he sends shoulders ahead

to one-legged tomorrows

The car parade

begins again

as the scrape of fork and plate

screams

in his ears