Al Capone

The old man starred. His eyes looked passed me as if I didn't even exist. He frowned, squinted his eyes, and closed his scruffy mouth around his cigarette and mumbled words, as if to try reassure himself of something. Half his face was covered in a black shadow cast by his dusty leather hat that dipped down, deep, against his sweat-dripping forehead. The man's face was round and he had many wrinkles; either from squinting or old age. The angry face of the man made you feel guilty as if a crime was committed when he looked at you. The dark eyes were shallow but filled with experience and pain. He wore an old fashioned suit that was too tight and his scruffy chin folded over his collar and tie. His body was plump, as if he hadn't worked in years, and his hands were unwashed and brown from dirt. His black shoes were muddy and his dress pants were to long which caused them to be ripped and dirty at the bottom. His suit jacket was too short in the arms and to small in length. The white shirt, underneath his jacket, was tucked into his pants and his stomach bulged, stretching the white shirt so that it looked like it could rip open. Before I turned to leave I glanced over and shot a small, friendly smile to the man who sat lonely against the old wooden boards of the train station. He didn't care to smile back, his eyes grieved something as if he had not a thing to live for. As I walked away I wondered what could have caused his pain to feel so alone and depressed in this beautiful world. So, alone, the man sat until dusk at the empty train station.