old is a better fit than any
number I could cut and paste to his body
this man with no age
and no name
wears a red coat in mid October
he whispers when he orders his meal
as though his vocal cords would crumble
under the force of his words
hesitating, he leans on his cane, appears
too proud to ask my help,
so I offer.
Carry his food to a table
as behind me he stumbles even with support.
I cannot decipher his emotion
lying between resentment and thanks
slow movements bring food to his lips
he moves sporadically for the door when he leaves
the sight breaks my heart and
for once I don’t mind the mess on the table.
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