his shoulders hunched from the weight of a
a backpack and a mysterious small white bag,
he shuffled, head down, it was early in the morning
he looked drunk, old, beaten down
I wasn't sure if I should turn back
but he didn't look organized enough to be dangerous.
Our paths crossed and I called out a hearty
good morning to which he replied with an equally
hearty good morning,
he didn't sound drunk or drugged.
he stopped at the stone bench to study a book
that had been left behind, drenched from spring
We walked past towards home
I wonder if he has a home.