I met a man on the bus
The doors opened and among the throngs of  people
he appeared as if from another age
Dark grey wool suit, fedora, black wingtips
Dapper from afar, but as he got closer

I saw the shine on the suit where it had rubbed up
against other peoples lives
Saw the frayed threads on the right sleeve
where his watch marked the passage of time
Noticed the scuff marks on his shoes

He sat across from me, his lower lip moving
his right hand trembling slightly
I smiled and he moved to sit next to me

And we talked in a halting liturgy
of English and Spanish and gestures
He was on his way to the florist to get
a bouquet to put on his wife’s grave

His wife who died in childbirth thirty years ago
Whose grave he had never visited
because he’d gone back to Mexico with his baby, 
his son, his only memory of his wife whom he loved

And now he was back
back to place flowers on the grave
of the woman he loved and to mourn
the death of his son
buried in a grave in Matamoros

I pulled the rope for him, and he got off the bus
and we moved on