He stands, newly planted,
with feet of clay.
No back or beyond,
fingers barely warmed for work.
not one callous formed across his mind.
A road ahead is sought, unknowable as dust
blown from distant lands.
The station lies silent, misted.
Train or bus will soon arrive.
Filled with those who will scrutinize,
vaguely remembering the day they took root.
Began to wither on the vine.