Pepper hair, limp and stringy.

Old maybe, grey eyes

that prevents the world from touching him,

or he from it.

Once he was a person.

Scary, maybe sad.

He kept his things around him

on the table.

His bobbles, his possessions.

Like they were little people,

like they were his children,

like he didn’t own them,

just cared for them

He tapped out numbers on a plastic calculator.

Wrote strings of digits on paper.

Reflected on the numbers,

then tapped out more,

in this public place.

Wrote them down and reflected more.

I thought how admirable,

to bring his work to McDonald’s.

To sit with his things.

He had no food, just a cup of water.

And his things, his children.

And his numbers.