I can’t see his face.
He is turned so I only see a profile.
His cowboy hat covers his eyes.
But he is not a cowboy.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up.
The fingers of his hands are in his jean pockets so you can still see his hands.
They are rough. Used. Weary hands.
A laborer hands.
He stands waiting for a ride.
To where I don’t know.
But he put in a solid honest day’s work.
The ride arrives. It is an old blue pickup truck.
He gets in. Says something but always look straight ahead.
The truck vanishes into the evening.
I know nothing else about his story other than I would like to have a beer with him one day and learn about his story.
What is your story today.
Who are you sharing it with.
The ageless experiment.
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