I met his melancholy between the lines
Mid-way into his life story
He was standing by a dusty road
Wearing a blue poncho
A rucksack against his feet
Slowing to look more closely
I saw him crunching toward the car
And pulled over
“The nearest town,” he heaved
Climbing in, his week-old stubble
Filling my rear-view mirror
He never left my side
As it turned out
Sat resolutely in place
Even after I had moved on
To the next novel
Travelling with me
Reading this
Wonderful.
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