I’ve seen him before.
Waiting for what I do not know.
Alone He sits, politely nodding to the passersby, checking his watch patiently.
He wears an old black suit with a beaming white shirt,
atop his bald head a fading black derby sits.
He’s alone this nondescript man, waiting.
On his narrow lap a tattered book rest, he’s waiting.
I’ve seen him before, the black man with the tattered book.
Waiting for what I do not know.
By Lucius Wilson
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