"Bob."

his eyes shaded a blur in black trimmed white
capped by red turned back
hair a brown short close
forehead rounded, nose sculpted
head turned and body forward
his legs carry triangles with the ground,
slightly crooked and bent
arms curved with weighted tears of effort
Bob
with his dead bart keychain and another hanging
moved on the street past the yellow, black, white
and Bob
turned to look at me, my machine.