Sentence

He
almost an "it"
stops in the middle
of the intersection
light as green as envious eyes
to pick up some trinket
left on the asphalt
but puts it down gently
after deeming it useless
then wanders on in our headlights
headphones loosely dangling from his ears
sweat pouring from the recesses in his temples
where the curly black hair retreated
like his loved ones
long ago
before the cheap cigarettes
like the one plastered
to the corner of his trembling mouth
became his only hope
and all I can think
as I step on the gas
and cut through the night
is
"That'll be me someday,"
if it isn't already.