There’s an old man I often see
at the train station
Lanky and scruffy with pants always just below his knees
But never does he seem cold
Every time I see him, in his
Hands a new book he holds
Always reading and turning a page
As he waits for the arrival of the train
On his back, he carries a red and grey
backpack,
It looks heavy and full but not too old
I always wonder what he carries in there
On his feet a pair of simple sandals,
On his head a shoddy-looking hat
And rain or shine, a trusty umbrella at his side
But in his hands, he holds a book
The cover is bright and striking
The font is elegant and bold
I’m sure he adventures through every page
With his bag, his hat, and his simple shoes.
It’s the gift every new page offers
A story that will take him far beyond
the train ever could
I don’t know this man
I don’t know where he comes from
But as I take out my book from my bag,
I’m sure we’ll meet somewhere on this
literary adventure.