with crooked teeth and a crooked smile
the old man takes his usual place
with a lazy eye and hands like a file
his withered grin cracks through his face

far from the sea, edge of the ocean
the yellow beard seems out of place
gesture of his hand, a friendly motion
his matted hair plastered to his face

an emerald rusted bike’s his ride
dry, cracked lips try español
crouched on the bench with legs spread wide
he’s no spaniard, nor drunk, nor famished soul

landlocked in the beat of europe’s heart
the man’s no sailor but he looked the part
he had a heart of gold, a name I can’t remember
he was the slovak, broken-spanish-speaking sailor

-j.a.kays