Bouquet and Tear

I saw him on the subway to Manhattan,
Thinning hair,
Thinning skin,
Bulge over a belt and baggy pants
In his pockmarked hands,
A magazine, something cosmetic,
He moved the pages
Like butterfly wings
He pulled out the samples of perfume,
Small, pink, and orange,
All the inserts with models on them,
Then huffed them one after another
It brought tears to his eyes,
Tears of joy, or else
Tears of pain,
I wanted to believe it was the later
I wanted to believe he was remembering
A long lost wife, or lover,
Better to think of a man like that
In pain rather than a pure degenerate

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