A little old man stands at the bus stop
wet eyed and stretching his lips very wide,
moving his feet in a sandpaper shuffle
hoping to eke out a smile from the queue but
all eyes are elsewhere and no words will swap
here in the shelter with no rain outside.
He stands there, an orphan in too big a duffle
watching the queue leave, the doors slipping shut.
If you have any comments on this poem, Karen Doherty would be pleased to hear from you.