Foreign

I love crinkled old men,

And the way they sit, gingerly,

On the edge of train seats,

And adjust their spectacles or

Smooth down their trousers.

I want to ask them,

Where have you been?

Who have you loved?

But I never do,

And they just sit there,

Wary of the new world they're living in,

Unsettled by my generation.

They are a human time capsule,

Full of memories and the

Strength of knowledge and yet,

They sit there,

Nervous of this strange modernity,

Like a foreigner who does not know the words.