The Shuffler
An old man scuffed his feet across the floor
as he headed for the Café’s exit door.
He shuffled along with his walking stick,
a lit cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.
His jacket looked like an open ferry door,
at least two sizes too big, maybe more.
A stoop kept his eyes fixed to the ground,
cursed with old age, and deaf to sound.
A nose dew dropp was moved by his sleeve,
apathetic to all who watched him leave.
He opened the door and again shuffled his feet,
as he became a number on the busy street.
poem by Orlando Belo
Added by Poetry Lover
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