his face

He knows

those eyes.
They've seen it all.
Deep set.

I'm reading Bukowski.
The words

---- fell
--------- off
------------- the
------------------ page
to be now seated across
from me
on the tube.

Everything about him
is flawed perfection.
Stoic suffering is
etched
into every pore
until they are connected
b
_y______ n
__c____ o
___a__ y
____n
like wrinkles.

His gaunt face.
Thin,
pressing,
knowing.

Elastic band weaved
around his
wedding finger.
Wrapped tight,
the tip is scarlet.
A constant reminder.

This small hunk of
granite. I feel sorry
for him. But he craves
no pity.