This old man,
my silent, accidental bus-companion for the last 15 years.
He looks like an Amish man,
a long wispy, white beard, no moustache,
so concrete, so real of a man, so of this Earth,
his brown work shoes,
his cloth bag of papers and whatnots.
He must have a history
as interesting as the history of this region of Ohio,
of other states, perhaps,
(of another home country?) .
He must have had a life of proud labor;
he still dresses like a laborer,
a blue, un-tucked work shirt,
blue jeans w/ faded-to-cream color knees
and a breast pocket filled with pens and a set of plastic silverware.
Does he still work, I wonder,
to supplant his social security?
God forbid we don’t give him enough to live on,
but God bless him –
he would probably be happier to still be working.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem