He is the man you saw sitting at the bus stop, <br />His elbows on his knees, <br />Arms like pillars propping up his noggin, <br />Hands in a V, with his chin in the angle, <br />One palm against each cheek. <br />He wants you to think he doesn’t notice you looking, <br />So his head tilts slightly downward, but his stare <br />Rolls up from behind wire glasses, a perfect weasel. <br /> <br />When others come to wait, they don’t sit, <br />Despite two empty places either side him. <br />An instinctual air floats about. <br />And though slight of build, even lumberjacks steer clear, <br />As of the obvious bearer of some contagious disease. <br />He breeds distrust, like a stray dog tricked once too often, <br />Kicked by someone feigning a handout, <br />Too hungry not to try.<br /><br />John M. FitzGerald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/introducing-joe-smith/
