The Old Man

There's an old man
I pass
everyday
on the way to uni.

Everyday
I pass him,
everyday
I see him,
and only today
have I come
to realize
that I see him
more often
than I do
some of
my
friends.

Everyday
he pushes
a cart
filled to the brim
with people's
old scraps;
people's
forgotten momentos,
memories,
trash,
and sells them
for cash.

Everyday
he pushes
this cart
with knobby hands,
stopping every
few yards
to catch
his breath,
to take
a break,
to rest
his aching back,
which is so
contorted
it looks like
he has
a writhing snake
coiled up
within him,
running down
the entire length
of his
back.

But telling
from the tears
I saw him cry
today
for the very
first time
as he sat
weeping
alone
in the April monsoon
rainstorm,
it's not a snake
he has
coiled
inside,
but rather
a sense
of sadness,
so deep,
so awful,
so agonizingly raw,
that it made me
turn
and stare
as I drove past,
causing a tear
to trickle
down the length
of
my own
face.

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