At the BART Train Station
Old man all whiskers and tobacco sprigs clamps his oyster hand on mine The Lord will take care of you I snap back into the metal envelope of wheelchair attempt to mail myself outside the situation Looks like he already has, I say prying loose his hand No dialog here-- I'm not interested in the Lord's eternal care and this old man would likely choke on the taste of my aura. Still, his eyes are veridian and there are things I could've asked him.