A tan briefcase fell through open doors,
Almost as weathered and haggard as its owner.
His austere black shoes came second,
Noise rickoting off their soles against freezing mint floors.
His gaunt face with drooping skin came third,
Snow-white hair and moonish, gaping pale gray eyes.
He yelped a throaty call to a friend, everyone else he ignored.
He pushed circular thickly-lenses glasses up a hooked nose,
Brushing past stares in groups of fours.
A bird-framed woman flicks harsh eyes in his direction,
Fingers deftly flipping pages of a magazine.
She is not the only one, as his voice billows
through the train and out the window it pours.
As minutes drip by, the moon-eyed man gruffly
stoops towards the open doors.
They mechanically widen,
and through them the weathered briefcase flies once more.