The Man | Joey Wolfgang

His hands
Were dry and cracked
With opened scars 

Over his knuckles.
In his right hand, he twirled
A pen and held a pencil

With his left.
He stared blankly

At his sheet of paper, 
Like an anti-social
Person at a bus stop.

As I stared, I wondered
If he wrote for fun or for work.
But he looked up
And stared at me, 

“The pen is for the final draft, 
where everything is completed.”