Literal Story Poems

He Waits

Every morning, he would wait.
He waits at the rusty black gate that no longer looks black.
He always dresses in his clean and neatly polished sneakers,
Freshly washed white collar shirt,
Ironed dark blue uniform pants and jacket,
And wait.

His pale yet shinning hair always combs neatly more to the right side
On top of his fair and smooth face.
His green eyes glitter lights of hope and anxiety,
Embarrassments and shyness,
With self-consciousness, he waits.

He then sees the red motorcycle stops in an air of gray smoke,
Smells of gasoline.
The Dark-haired target jumps off in the same uniform,
Collar shirt,
And sneakers.
He hides himself from him under the halves of his eyelids,
Feels the breeze of wind as he walks pass him
Without moving a glance.