He and I At Bay

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.