I parked by the street today —
intent on getting my 10,000 steps.
Or is it 8,000?
It doesn’t matter.
I’m not going to do it anyway.

I let the motor idle with the A/C still running
while a favorite song plays.
My eyes wander over to the man at the bus stop.

He’s old.
Old in that way that reminds me
of weathered sepia-colored prints
from the early 20th century.

His coat is a nondescript brown.
So are his pants.
And he wears a hat. Not a ball cap.
A hat.

He sits patiently. Waiting.
A modern still life in the city.

Suddenly, he reaches down by his feet
where a crack in the sidewalk hosts
a collection of weeds.
He plucks a baby dandelion from the debris,
yellow, and full of life,
and sticks it in his faded lapel.