waiting

I saw him for a fraction of a second. He was sitting on the metal railing next to the bus stop. He was wearing a white t-shirt, and a gray and white striped serape jacket; the wool kind that you find at the flea market and the state fair. It had a hood, but he wasn't using it. The wind blew sharply, through it, cutting to his weary skin. He squinted into the sun, and held on tightly to a white coffee cup, balancing gracefully on the rail. There was a silver bike within grasping distance. I know it was his. He was wearing black pants and worn brown leather shoes with black soles. His face was red, maybe from the sun, maybe from high blood pressure, maybe from drinking. His soft white hair and beard were cut very short all around. He thought about his kids. And he thought about the last three cigarettes in his pocket. And how late is that liquor store open? Wordlessly, he waited for the bus.