Elegy for the village’s grubby old man

When he got on the bus
or joined the queue to board
we all looked at our shoes,
or read the text on our tickets;
Or stared out the window –
to no avail of course.
He always wanted to talk.
Clown hair and suit jacket,
grey slacks stained,
his dirty nails needed clipping
and his bad breath stank
through the gaps in his teeth.
That was he.

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