A sandwich in the sun

I watch the old man.

he's in the sun, the sun is on
his face

like a soft yellow hand.

his eyes are blue. the hat, once
white

is bleached
a sour hue of lemon
or lime.

he strokes his ancient mustache,
silver
and thick.

I watch as he leans towards
the table,
the plate
that holds his sandwich.

carefully he cuts it in two,
then again,

into four squares. he says
a prayer,
then eats.

looking down, then away.

I can see that he remembers
someone,
and wishes she was there.