waiting on a friend

my man,
my main man
is outside the seven eleven
waiting for his
ride.
a lucky between
his lips.
a thermos.
his thin leather jacket
barely keeping
him warm.
his paint pants blow
wide in the wind,
bleached white,
streaked
in old dried paint.
his boots speckled,
his gloves torn.
his beard rides off
his chin
in blonde red
curls. he strokes
it patiently while
I arrive on time.