The Young Man
A young man drifts to the fringe,
Still walking tall beneath the weight.
He inches across the parking lot,
Dragging the wreckage of his past with him.
He shifts chairs like he's a customer,
Reckless, for someone on the edge.
He rifles through old baggage,
Sorting what he's destined to lose.
He leaves it all behind,
Steps forward with a twitch in his jaw.
There's violence deep behind his eyes,
His muscles, too tight to keep peace for long.
He charms a cup of ice from the barista,
Maybe he's learning to play it smooth.
Soon, he's gone, searching,
For some place quiet enough to disappear.
