when they are this baggy
on an elderly man weaving
down the path by the creek
near noon, a windy day,
a traveler I have often spied
from my kitchen window.

Who is he? Is he lonely?
Where is he going? Why?
What do I know about him
beyond his long, graying,
greasy hair, dark glasses,
wrinkled face, fearful eyes?

His holey, over-sized jeans
flood over his legs, plaid
shirt hanging like saggy skin
while his blue-jean jacket
swallows the rest like a snake
until his eyes blink close.