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 baldhead 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.

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