Feet so dirty they look like he is wearing socks, he and his blackened feet get on my bus and sit.
Averted eyes as he places himself next to the man in the suit.  Perfect creases but furrowed brow.
Bottles and bags and torn clothes and McKenzie and Quadra and I don’t think he cares about any of us.
He exists without our consent, and he is the highest art I have seen in ages.

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