This Old Man

It's 7:30. There's a bolding old man wandering the university grounds. He has a thick eye glasses and wears a loose shirt with a bright blue tie, grey suit jacket, long gery cotton socks and a pair of neat brown leather shoes. He carries with him a few shopping bags under rolled up sleaves. Every now and again, he would take a moment from shifting through the universities rubbish bins to stare at the setting sun. Sometimes he would test his vision, covering one eye with his left hand, then another. He would stroke his unshaven neck a few times, straighten his tie and pull up his socks before diving back into the bins; searching for a single meal

As I watched him wondering the university grounds from a raised balcony. A middle ages man, loose from a long day at work, stood a distance beside me. He had a beer in his hand from the pub and was outside having a breather. He too saw the wandering old man. I instantly saw a look of pain, despair and inward pity wash over his face.