Paper Man

         He sits on the station bench, blending so hopelessly well with the discolored concrete behind him. He wears a presentable shirt, though criss-crossed and creased with thin lines, interlaying shadows. It has the look of permanently-rumpled, despite being ironed just this morning. His tie bears a loud pattern that doesn’t quite mask the inevitable stain from once-upon-a-lunch. His large feet are squeezed into leather shoes, perhaps slick and structured at one time, now with frayed laces and feathered soles. He wears standard pants, depending solely on a tarnished belt to clasp onto his withering frame. The man in the clothes is smothered by the garments, but of course there is nothing to be done about it. He is the office man, classic with glasses and receding hairline. He can look a little gaunt, maybe starved and meek. Drowning in the disheveled disarray of his position, he is not a man to get to know, but one to merely ponder. He is the paper man, crumpling further in on himself each day while he waits for the train to work. You can pause as you walk by to see if he ever smiles.